


I Dreamed of Rain (and the Rain Came)

by Sarah_hadeschild



Series: Epiphanies [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), ALL OF IT, After the church, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Artist Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Copious Amounts of Fluff, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley has some explaining to do, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Genderfluid Aziraphale (Good Omens), Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Getting Together, Happily Ever After, Historian!Crowley, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Imperial Russia, Implied sexy times, Insecure Aziraphale (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Masturbation, Multi, Mutual Pining, Not Canon Compliant, Oblivious Aziraphale and Crowley (Good Omens), Panic Attacks, Pining, Russia, Touch-Starved Crowley (Good Omens), WWII, Yearning, because why not, just all the emotions, socrates mention, what is canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:02:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 52,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25478857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarah_hadeschild/pseuds/Sarah_hadeschild
Summary: “You trusted me with your life, once.” The demon whispered.“Ah. The Bastille.”“The Bastille.” Crowley echoed, looking as though he didn’t know whether to continue speaking or run for the hills. “What will it take for you to do that again?”AKA, a demon and an angel reconcile during the Blitz. Pining and fluff ensue.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Epiphanies [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1959310
Comments: 47
Kudos: 108





	1. You Don't Have to Ask

1941 was a hell of a year.

Many, a great many, would say that it was devoid of miracles. Even more would argue that the year had successfully proven the impossibility of them. When hellfire rained from the sky in metallic death-machines that screamed after dark, the air was too loud to allow for rose-tinted reflection. The flowers that burst through the cracks in cobblestones and alleyways were forgotten as bloodshed coloured the newspaper stands and people’s minds. The beauty of the flowers was neglected, along with the life they represented, which was now seen as the most fragile thing in the world. Mortal minds are, by definition, limited. They are seldom able to acknowledge Heaven and Hell in the same moment.

It was therefore ironic (at least in human terms) that an angel and a demon should take up residence in that burning city at the same time— in the same year, in the same month, and eventually, in the same doomed church on the corner. Fate and irony have been in love for centuries, as the poets say.

But this meeting was not fated, though it may have been wished. Wishes count for a lot, in this story. It was wishful thinking that had caused the angel to write to his friendly serpent, the one who shouted at him in the park, the one who had asked Aziraphale to give him— 

No, no. Best not to think it.

Angels were made to forgive; it was their primal instinct. As beings of love, they ought to love and forgive all creatures. And they were well-equipped to do so.

Did you know that the angelic halo, the one printed on Hallmark cards and worn by chipped, porcelain figurines, was inspired by Plato? Yes, the Christians loved the thoughtful pagan, when it suited them. Plato spoke of the gods as complete beings, their minds like a perfectly drawn circle. Beginning to end, linked and whole from the start. The gods wanted for nothing because they were complete already, an argument that was soon assigned to angels, too. Thenceforth, angels were understood by mortals as the celestial, cosmic forgivers who wanted for nothing and existed only to elevate others to their star-covered plain.

How boring.

Aziraphale could never stand for such a sanitized self-image. The walls of the Sistine Chapel are filled with angels yet none of them look like the motley little book-seller in Soho. They do not indulge in sushi or fine powdered cakes. They are not shown to fraternize with demons in between miracles and they do not hoard knowledge on their shelves in cloth-bound tomes because they already know everything. Aziraphale, on the other hand, knows nothing.

He wonders if that is what singles himself out from the rest— the uncertainty that causes his eyes to draw downward when faced with Gabriel or Michael, whose eyes never falter, falling from their target. His doubt causes him to look away from those who know. He felt a special kinship with Socrates ever since he heard him proclaim “Ἓν οἶδα ὅτι οὐδὲν οἶδα” on the steps of the Acropolis. 

_“I know that I know nothing.”_

He would repeat it sometimes, over tea when he was absolutely certain that no one was listening. It was the only truth he knew, apart from the fact that he also wants.

He wants to understand why he is insufficient; why She would have created an angel who lusts after books, crepes, fine wine, and, on rare occasions, his friend, whom he can never quite forgive for leaving him even as he writes him letters because he has forgotten how to be alone. Aziraphale is tired of being alone. He wants the company he does not keep, with that fallen angel who knows what it is to feel insufficient. _That’s what demons are, aren’t they? Angels who fell short?_ And Crowley was (to Aziraphale’s delight) terrible at being a demon. Crowley, Aziraphale felt, was the only person in all the universe, who might understand what it felt like to be so unsuited for the world. 

Whoever it was that borrowed Plato’s words and applied them to angels was hopelessly naive, at least where Aziraphale was concerned. If angels aren’t meant to want because they are already whole, then why does he feel so _empty?_

“You coming, angel?”

Aziraphale blinked and the Bentley was there, spotlessly polished, next to the remains of a smouldering sanctuary. The angel smiled to himself. For a self-proclaimed blasphemer, Crowley worshipped that car.

Crowley stood at the rear of the car, ready to open the trunk to store Aziraphale’s still-smoking satchel full of books. He waited for the angel’s instruction, but he needn’t have bothered; Aziraphale would never relinquish his hand on them again.

The ride to the bookshop was choked with uncertainty. Each passenger studying the other in between sharp turns and horn-honking. Crowley was subtle, glancing out from behind his blackened spectacles. Aziraphale was obvious, clicking his teeth as he made deductions. Crowley had changed. He had short hair and a crooked fedora— his trademark nonchalant style that Aziraphale knew him well enough to recognize as anything but. His suit was finely tailored and his jawline sharp as his hand thumped against the steering wheel. He looked beautiful and terrified, all at once.

Aziraphale wanted desperately to reach out and touch him. He wanted to feel the velvet of his lapel beneath his hands and remove his hat, running his hands through that hair that always changed shape but never compromised its beauty. But he couldn’t. Why, he didn’t know.

He didn’t know if it was Her or Gabriel that would destroy them (though he assumed it would be Gabriel— he relished every opportunity to be an arbiter of justice) but someone would. Or perhaps their demise would be Aziraphale’s fault. Perhaps Crowley would grow wise to Aziraphale’s uncertainty. His angelic nature could be very persuasive. He didn’t grow any plants in the shop because when he did, they would grow bent in his direction, as if seeking out the sunlight of his soul. The presence of an angel can, initially, feel like a sigh of relief to anyone in close proximity. But in time, Crowley would grow accustomed to the reality of him. He would find his faultiness and run from them, once there was nothing else to be gained.

Either the Universe would end them, or Aziraphale would do it by accident, and he refused to accept either outcome.

“If you keep thinking that hard, your brain is going to _melt,_ ” Crowley told him, half-joking, half-concerned. “I can practically hear you thinking.”

Aziraphale said nothing, and Crowley slowed down, for the first time in his checkered history of navigating London. “It’s been a while. You probably have some questions. You know you can ask me anything.”

Aziraphale nodded, slipping a hand into the satchel to feel that the books were still there. “And you’ll tell me the truth?”

Crowley scoffed. “What the hell kind of question is that?”

He looked over to see Aziraphale shrink away from him in defeat, a move which he never could have anticipated. He would need to proceed gently, with caution.

“Yes, I will. ‘Course I will.”

“I have many questions.”

“Ask away.”

He thought for a moment, weighing his options. “How did you know I would be here tonight?”

Crowley shrugged. “Heard that a covert deal involving literature was going down tonight, and assumed you’d have a hand in it.”

“You used a demonic miracle to save me.”

“Is there a question in there I’m not hearing?” Crowley teased, pleased when he earned a half-hearted smile from his companion.

“Is that how you found me, too? A demonic miracle?”

The demon quirked a smile. “Not a miracle, Aziraphale. A letter.”

He gestured to the glove compartment. “Open it.”

Aziraphale reached in, retrieving a small stack of letters, all of which were unsealed and bound together with a loose string of twine. They looked worn, as if they had been opened many times, their contents folded awkwardly from frequent reading.

It was probably Aziraphale’s imagination.

“You kept them.” He said.

“Again, still not a question.”

“Why did you keep them?”

“They have your address on them, I couldn’t lose that. The Arrangement is a difficult thing to sustain if I don’t know where you are.”

“Oh.” He returned the stack to the compartment. Of course, Crowley was pragmatic at heart. He never acted without a reason.

“And…” he gripped the steering wheel with both hands, his knuckles going pale, “maybe I wanted to write you back, sometime.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Crowley’s mouth sank into a thin, hard line as he gazed through the windshield. “Is this you, on the left?”

The bookshop sat quietly on the corner which (miraculously) continued on in its humble way, the bombs befalling London ever failing to come this way. The curtains were drawn in compliance with the air raid protocols, though the space still exuded warmth, even in the dark.

It had always looked like a beacon, to Crowley. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale nodded. “It is.”

Crowley parked alongside the empty sidewalk. Neither one made any move to get out.

Aziraphale looked from the satchel to Crowley, who might have been a statue for the stoic way he gripped the wheel, hardened to the point of absolute stillness. He didn’t like to see this part of him, the part that held back.

The angel leaned over to him, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “Thank you again, Crowley. For everything.”

“Did you really think that I was working with the Nazis?” He blurted it out suddenly, like the thought had gotten away from him. His disgust was not far from the surface.

“No, my dear. No, I… I don’t think so. I don’t know why I said that, really. Except that I was surprised to see you and everything feels so confused right now…”

“Confused?” Crowley asked, his eyebrows leaping from behind the rims of his glasses.

“I mean, with the war and all.”

Loose lips sink ships, the posters read. The radio warned of spies and clandestine meetings in the dark. Aziraphale had walked out to meet them tonight only to be led astray. Earth was beginning to resemble Above and Below— two sides locked in a power struggle, their every action examined, recorded, and countered. 

“Oh,” Crowley nodded vehemently. “Yes, right.”

Aziraphale knew his answer wasn’t enough. It was hardly the whole truth, when Crowley was making such an effort to be honest. He could see Crowley turning it over in his mind, clicking his tongue as he always did before his anger got the better of him. 

“How long—” he sighed as he said it “— are we going to do this before you see that I’m on your side?”

“Heaven’s side, you mean?” He smiled, ruefully.

“You know that isn’t what I mean.”

Aziraphale could just make out Crowley’s eyes from behind his glasses as they darted down to where Aziraphale’s hand still rested on his arm. 

_Could that mean something?_ Aziraphale couldn’t tell. He dragged his hand lower until it rested over Crowley’s clenched fist. He thought he felt it soften, just a little.

“You trusted me with your life, once.” The demon whispered.

“Ah. The Bastille.”

“The Bastille.” Crowley echoed, looking as though he didn’t know whether to continue speaking or run for the hills. “What will it take for you to do that again?”

“Entrust my life to you?” The angel wrinkled his nose in startled confusion. “I don’t know. Likely the next time I manage to get myself into a heap of trouble.”

Crowley stared passed him with the expression of a disgruntled maths student, struggling to understand the jumble of signs and symbols laid out in front of him. He looked lost.

Aziraphale kept his hand on Crowley’s, trying desperately not to regret his cavalier act.

“No, Aziraphale,” he whispered, “not your life, just… _you._ ”

Aziraphale was stunned into silence. How dare Crowley leave him for years only to turn up and do— do _this._ He felt like he was going to be sick.

“I’ve missed you, you know.”

Crowley’s opposite hand relinquished its hold on the steering wheel in favour of covering Aziraphale’s own. It brought tears to the angel’s eyes, the swiftness of it. Like Crowley didn’t have to think twice, although, Aziraphale knew, he had likely thought about it a great deal.

“Come inside, Crowley.” Aziraphale said it as calmly as he could— no persuasion, no hesitation, just an invitation.

Crowley stuttered out a sound like a car backfiring.

The demon looked down at their entwined hands. “I should be off.”

“Oh, please do come inside. I’ll open some champagne and we can celebrate. You saved the lives of several books tonight as well as my own— you deserve a proper thank you for your heroics.”

The driver’s side door was open before a single syllable was uttered. “If you insist.”

Aziraphale went straight for the cupboard in the back, where the finest treats were stored— wine, miracle-preserved chocolates, and the wine glasses he’d received as a gift from Oscar Wilde as a thank-you for proofreading his manuscript (and other things besides). He pulled from the cabinet two glasses and two bottles of champagne before returning to the sitting area.

“My dear boy, would you prefer the—- oh good _lord._ ”

Crowley was hobbling in the direction of the sofa, supporting himself with one hand pressed against the adjacent bookshelf as he inched further into the room on the sides of his shoes. His glasses sank lower as he moved and he looked as though he were about to cry.

“It’s alright, Angel.” He waved him away, collapsing on the edge of the love-seat.

“It most certainly is not. You’re _hurt._ ” 

Aziraphale abandoned the bottles on the table and sat next to him, unsure whether or not to rest his hand on Crowley’s back for comfort. He decided against it. Surely it was the consecrated ground that had burned him so, which meant that Aziraphale was the cause of his pain. If Crowley should resent him for it and recoil from his touch, it would break an already complicated heart.

“It was the church, wasn’t it?” He asked, feeling guilty for his own ambivalence as Crowley had danced across the aisle. He had assumed that the show was, at least partly, for the sake of dramatics.

He had been wrong.

“’s nothing to worry about, Angel. Consecrated ground just doesn’t seem to care for me,” he scoffed, “I wonder why.”

“You poor dear. Why not just—” he waved a hand over the sad situation, “— miracle it away.”

“No use. Wouldn’t want to draw more attention tonight by having another miracle on my record. Too much explaining to do Downstairs.”

“Oh, I see.” He inched closer to his friend, a hand already extended. “Well why don’t I—”

“No! Don’t!”

His exhortation frightened Aziraphale, and he lurched back in surprise.

“I’m sorry, Angel. It’s just that…you don’t want it on your record either, right?”

“Right,” Aziraphale agreed, not quite sure where the demon might be going with this.

“I mean, how would you explain this to Gabriel, eh? Oh, just wanted to heal a demon, you know, make him more comfortable.”

He smiled. “That would be a bit difficult to explain.”

“Precisely.”

“But you can’t just ignore the problem, Crowley. It won’t just go away by ignoring it.”

Aziraphale leapt from the sofa, determination in his footsteps as he walked to the kitchen. “I’ll be right back.”

“Angel, what are you—”

“No more questions!” He called, meanwhile the water in the kettle was warming, without having to be told.

“You _cannot_ be serious.” Crowley squirmed as he said it, recoiling from the basin placed in front of him.

He did his best not to look too long at Aziraphale, who had shed his overcoat and had his sleeves rolled to his elbows and a towel in his hand. He tried not to think about the waistcoat either, the way it clung to his sides as Aziraphale knelt between his knees, but he was failing. 

The angel sighed as he poured two drinks— one for himself, and one for Crowley— and shoved one into the demon’s hand. “Just let me take care of you, ok? Here, have a drink.”

The demon nodded, forgetting how to speak. He soon took to drinking instead. He hissed in pain as Aziraphale removed the first finely-cobbled shoe, revealing grey, bloodstained socks.

“Oh, Crowley.” 

“It’s not as bad as it looks, Angel.” He said through gritted teeth, knowing just how bad it looked.

Aziraphale merely frowned and began removing the sock, biting back a sigh as he caught sight of the deep-set blisters on the sole of his foot. Apparently the demon’s healing powers did little to combat the effect of holy sanctuary. He would need a more traditional approach. Reaching to untie the other shoe, Aziraphale’s fingers lingered over the blackened brogues, hesitant to reveal another spectre as bloodied as the last.

Crowley did his best to bear it, by running through every profanity he could think of, in every century and in every language. Aziraphale stopped him when he made it all the way back to Coptic Greek.

“Is that really necessary, my dear?”

“I had the soles of my feet charred off by your lot tonight, and you really think I’m overreacting?” He sneered, his hands digging into the already ancient fabric of Aziraphale’s sofa.

“I’m sorry.”

Aziraphale’s face was solemn and dark, like a melted candle and Crowley immediately wished he could claw it all back. All the angel could think about was their opposing sides and when he had finally broken through— when Aziraphale was finally focused on Crowley and Crowley alone— he had ruined it with talk of sides. 

Meanwhile, Crowley had recoiled and Aziraphale thought it was because of him.

He had to reverse this. “You know that I don’t mean _you,_ Angel.”

“The truth is,” Aziraphale began, placing Crowley’s left foot gingerly upon the floor. “The truth is that you wouldn’t have gone in there at all if it weren’t for me. So that makes this unequivocally my fault.”

He reached up for the small parcel of Epsom salts on the table that Crowley was certain wasn’t there a moment ago and began mixing them in with the warm water. He tested the water with his elbow before reaching down to grasp Crowley’s ankle when he pulled back, straightening himself.

“I’m going to wash your feet now, alright?” He asked, timidly.

“You shouldn’t have to ask permission…” Crowley’s comment tapered off at the end, choked in his throat.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You shouldn’t have to ask permission… to touch me.” He said, forcing himself to look the angel in the face. “You don’t have to ask it.”

“Oh.” (The “thank God” portion of Aziraphale’s comment was left unspoken)

As carefully as he was able, Aziraphale grasped his ankles, where the burning was minimal, and lowered his feet into the water. 

Crowley hissed as his raised skin hit the water, even as Aziraphale shushed him and ran a supportive thumb up and down his Achilles’ tendon. He buried his nails into the soft skin of his thighs until the water turned from harsh to comforting, and he let out a sigh of relief that he hadn’t realized was caught in his throat.

With the combined force of all his fears clutching him by the throat, Crowley remained silent, but sank deeper into the couch as he let Aziraphale touch him. The angel worked slowly, dragging the sandy water over him and massaging the arches of his feet with his gentle fingers. Faced with no other choice, Crowley let himself fade away under the ministrations of hands that were both known and unknown, observed but never felt. Aziraphale’s hands were paradigm-shifting. The things he had wondered about for centuries suddenly reaching out and holding onto him. 

“It’s alright,” the angel told him, stroking his ankle. _"You’re alright.”_

And Crowley let him say these things. For the first time in his immortal life, he let himself be soothed. Looking down at Aziraphale as he touched him with water droplets scattered across the front of his shirt, whispering small kindnesses, was enough. For what, Crowley didn’t know. But he knew that it was enough.

Probably more than enough. He was surprised to still be in his body, with Aziraphale looking at him like that. Like caring for him was his _job._

And to think that all he had to do was save a few books from the fire. If only he had been there to save the Library of Alexandria, he might have felt this sooner. He might have been redeemed sooner. 

He might even have been _loved._

“I’m sorry.” He confessed, downing the remaining contents of his glass.

Aziraphale waited, his hands retreating to the edge of the basin. It was all Crowley could do not to reach out and forcibly put them back.

“Whatever for?”

“For leaving,” he muttered, “for leaving you.”

Aziraphale’s face grew murky, caught somewhere between a frown and a smile, his eyes confused. 

“I forgive you,” he said, never looking up.

Crowley scoffed. “I thought we were being honest tonight, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale crumpled at that, but he refused to look him in the eye. “We are. I am. I forgive you.”

“I read the letters. You know that I read the letters.”

Aziraphale nodded, his hands drying on his thighs while Crowley’s feet grew restless in lukewarm water.

“Then you know how hard it is for me to believe you when you say that you forgive me.”

The letters. Even as Aziraphale had written them he knew that they were a bad idea. He’d written them originally as a form of retribution. _See how well I fare without you,_ he thought, dragging his fountain pen across the faded parchment. _Know that I’ve never needed you, that I am complete on my own._ The letters were proof of his satisfying independence.

But that’s not what they evolved to be. In the end, they became the foolish and selfish evidence of his failings. Evidence of the fact that he was bored and restless without his friend. They proved Crowley’s swiftly-developing theory that Aziraphale wanted him around and missed him when he was gone. In them, he told him of the books he’d acquired, the friends he’d made, and his sorrows when they went away. The letters were proof of something he hadn’t realized before he’d seen them all tied up in string in Crowley’s glove compartment.

They were the manifestation of Aziraphale’s love.

His address, neatly penned at the top corner of every one, was his wish. His wish that, for every opinion he had, there would be a response, sent back to him.

“I know that.” Aziraphale wished that he could disappear.

“Well,” Crowley began, choosing his words with desperate caution, “do you know how badly I wanted to write you back?”

“Well why didn’t you!” He cried. “You let me think that you were asleep, for years…”

“I was asleep.”

“Oh, and you just woke up tonight, did you? Just in time to come and rescue me like before?”

Crowley sighed, discarding his glasses on the table. For someone who slept for decades he was incredibly, impossibly tired.

“No. Not quite.”

“Well then.”

“I had to plan it though, didn’t I? Angel, you sit surrounded by books all day, reading everything, even the boring ones— how could I ever compete with your literary standards? You’d have laughed at me.”

“I would never laugh at you, Crowley. I would never.”

Aziraphale looked up at him as he spoke the words. He watched as Crowley took a shuddering breath, clearly regretting the removal of his glasses but too frightened that he might break the moment by reaching for them. Aziraphale said nothing, allowing him the silence. Carefully, he removed Crowley’s feet one by one from the basin and began drying them on a soft towel.

“Next time you disappear for a while, don’t let our first encounter be one that brings you pain, my dear. I couldn’t bear it.”

Once dry, Aziraphale began rubbing lotion over Crowley’s feet. He pushed Crowley’s dress pants higher as he dragged his hands languidly over his calves. The demon watched his every movement, committing to memory the feeling of Aziraphale’s soft hands dragging across his skin. He studied the angel’s face, enveloped in a look that was almost _reverent._

Aziraphale’s face broke into a wide grin. “Maybe next time, it’ll be my turn to save you, hmm? I’d say my turn is long overdue.”

Crowley shook his head, watching the way Aziraphale’s muscles pulled taught against the fabric of his waistcoat. The champagne was making his head swim with it.

“You’re always saving me, Angel. ‘Been like that since the Beginning.”

“I do think you’ve had a bit much to drink, old boy.” Aziraphale slipped his thinnest pair of stockings over Crowley’s feet, careful not to drag them over the blistered skin.

Crowley just sat there, letting him.

“’s true. You’re saving me right now with this,” he motioned vaguely between the two of them with his hand, a splatter of champagne spilling over the edge of his cup. “Just like this. Whoops— you’ve saved me again.”

Aziraphale’s heart nearly stopped before redoubling its efforts. 

“Can I—” he rose unsteadily, Crowley lending an arm to help him as he sat down next to him on the sofa. He latched onto it like a life preserver, refusing to let it go.

“What I mean is, do you think that I…”

Crowley nodded, forgetting how to breathe.

The kiss was chaste, at first. Aziraphale took Crowley’s face in his, smoothing back an errant strand of hair as he brought their lips together. That hair that had teased him for centuries in loose winds and on hot days, tossed haphazardly over his shoulder. Now he dragged his fingers through it, making up for lost time. 

Aziraphale held Crowley like a teacup, like he was a precious, fragile thing. And Crowley, who cloaked himself in black and convinced himself daily of his own diabolical nature, whined against his lips at the mere thought that Aziraphale might think of him as something delicate. 

The sound of Crowley beneath his lips was intoxicating. Aziraphale shifted closer and began kissing his lips, his neck, his temple. He dragged his tongue across his lips in question and the action awakened Crowley from his reverie. Suddenly Crowley’s hands were asking, too. They traced down Aziraphale’s back before grabbing onto his collar, tugging him closer. In one brave moment Aziraphale had become the air he needed to breathe to keep from drowning, and he held onto him as though his life depended on it because in many ways, it did. It always had.

“Wait,” Aziraphale whispered into his neck. “Wait, stop.”

Crowley pulled back immediately, concern colouring his face. He looked anxious to apologize, but for what, he couldn’t say.

“Are you alright, Angel?”

 _Was he?_ In that moment, Aziraphale was so many things. He was ecstatic, relieved, aroused and so, so adoring. But Crowley had disappeared from his life for years only to turn up and shake Aziraphale’s worldview. His perspective on the world and his place in it had shifted ten times in a matter of hours, and it was exhausting.

“I honestly don’t know how to answer that question,” he replied. 

Crowley nodded, reaching for his glasses. “I think that’s my cue to leave, then.”

“Oh, no!” Aziraphale cried, chasing him as he gathered up his shoes. “Don’t you dare leave me again, not now.”

Crowley shook his head, his expression softening. “I’ll be back soon, I promise.”

He leaned closer as though he might kiss Aziraphale, but decided against it. 

“Goodnight, Angel,” he said, as he pulled the shop door closed behind him.

He didn’t even stop to put on his shoes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you've enjoyed it!
> 
> Aziraphale washing Crowley's feet was inspired by the beautiful artwork of Whiteley Foster: https://niceprophecies.tumblr.com/post/624385418792665088  
> ^^Subscribe to their patreon if you can, their work is excellent!
> 
> I will be updating this fic as often as I can, so subscribe if you're curious to see what happens next. I know I sure am. ^_^


	2. Egypt 321 BCE

It has’t always been like this. This kiss-and-run pattern that they had fallen into. It used to be easy.

When Crowley lived in Egypt and Aziraphale worked as an art dealer for a stuffy Greek general— _Alexander, or Ptolemy?_ It all flows together after a while— they came together easily. Whenever Aziraphale was in town, scouting out a brilliant fresco painter or a sculptor with hands of fire, he would conclude his business swiftly in order to pay a visit to his old companion. 

Crowley would wait for him at the edge of the marketplace, pretending to inspect swaths imported silk. She always let Aziraphale come to her, in those days. They would spend their afternoons walking and talking, and if Aziraphale were to spend the entirety of his travel allowance on his companion (generals were generous and knew the value of nothing), then there was nothing more to be said. It was simply the way things were.

And Crowley was gorgeous in Egypt in a way that he worries he has since forgotten how to be. Her amber locks tucked sweetly under her mantel, she would pause to watch the skiffs gliding down the Nile and Aziraphale would watch her eyes and forget himself. If a few miracles were performed to divert the hopelessly persistent suitors from Crowley’s side, then so be it. Aziraphale was above all, a gentleman. And gentlemen do not allow their lady friends to be harassed by strange men; it simply isn’t done.

The walks were pleasant, but far from enough; their conversations always seemed to linger, spilling out into the streets. For this reason, Aziraphale decided to purchase a villa nearby. Small, but cozy, the villa came equipped with a rooftop view that overlooked the Nile, where the fishermen departed each morning for their daily scavenging. A long, narrow hallway led to the atrium, lit by the open-air, peristyle courtyard beyond. The villa's walls were adorned with the finest art one could buy or miracle, and the gardens among the colonnades were just vibrant enough to look inviting. Vibrant enough to give Crowley something to catalogue. Crowley would run a hand absentmindedly over the leaves, remembering why she had chosen Egypt in the first place (the determination of life among the sand, always breaking through). When she had first seen the gardens, the sight had made her laugh in surprise. Her laugh was loud and contagious, and freer than it had ever been in Eden, if she had ever laughed in that paradise at all.

Like armed guards the trees ran alongside the colonnades in rows, divided the interior of the villa from the exterior— a private meeting place along a busy street. Filled with sycamores, palms, and grenadiers, Aziraphale’s research paid off. The trees stood their ground alongside a small pond bustling with catfish and reeds. It became the preferred reading place in the home, where Aziraphale would bring his copy of the _Iliad,_ an old favourite even then, and mutter the Greek to the flora and fauna. 

Sometimes Crowley would find him there, reciting, and she would take her place in silence alongside the pond. She traced her fingers over the surface of the water, waving to the fins below the surface. 

And the sight of it would kill Aziraphale. Crowley in her pretty linen dress, laying in the grass with a distant expression and dishevelled hair, her lithe body forming a pliant S shape over the earth. It was all so _intimate,_ seeing her like this. It was easy to reimagine the image, to picture her sprawled out in a different kind of bed, only a room away. 

Sometimes Homer is difficult to read, and not for the usual reasons.

And Crowley loved those peaceful moments by the water’s edge. Although she did so prefer the _Odyssey_ to the _Iliad,_ she listened contentedly just the same. She liked listening. And she liked the way Aziraphale’s eyes lit up as he took her by the arm, showing her each of the new artworks he had acquired from Thebes or some other distant corner of the Mediterranean. She told herself that it was natural, the way Aziraphale guided her by the arm, his hand ghosting over her waist. It was proper etiquette for the day, nothing more.

She hoped that she was wrong.

The villa became their sanctuary. There, they dined and drank away the nights. And if Aziraphale happened to encounter some black and grey tapestries in his travels, he bought them and quietly began adorning the guest room. If his companion could see herself existing here in Aziraphale’s home, then perhaps she might visit more often. Perhaps she might even decide to stay. And the angel knew how much Crowley enjoyed sleeping. He neither wanted to deny Crowley her rest nor himself the company. A spare room for Crowley seemed a reasonable alternative.

And it worked brilliantly, for a time. Aziraphale would write to Crowley a week before his journey to Egypt, and Crowley would be seated in the atrium upon his return, pretending to wait patiently with a book in her hand, her foot tapping anxiously against the stone tiles. 

When the night grew dark, Aziraphale would take his lantern in hand and escort them onto the roof of the villa, where a blanket and a small basket of figs miraculously awaited them. Together they would watch the smaller vessels go out, carrying lovers into the water so that they too could watch the stars.

Crowley was obsessed with astronomy, perhaps because she had a hand in its creation. She pointed out the ones she knew from experience and those she had researched, though they all looked rather the same to Aziraphale. The light of distant stars caught in the water and reflected in Crowley’s eyes, too. A reflection of a simpler time, before questions were asked and judgements passed.

“But do you really mean to suggest that there are a thousand fires burning in the sky?” Aziraphale knew the truth, but valued the chance to irritate his friend even more.

As he well knew, Crowley loves an audience too dearly to ever be annoyed by another’s interest.

“Yes, exactly. More like millions, really.” She thought on it a moment. “Well, more like billions. Or whatever word the humans are using for an infinite number.”

“Probably infinity.”

“Yes, that sounds right. I was a good architect, you know. Before— ” she waved a hand noncommittally in front of her face, “— well, you know.”

“I’m sure you were, my dear. The best.” 

Crowley scoffed, tugging her veil lower on her head. “You would say that, Angel, you don’t understand a single thing I’ve been talking about, do you?”

He smiled. “I know that I know noting.”

“Ugh, not Socrates again,” Crowley rolled her eyes. “That miserable old sod. You’re always on about him.”

“I do believe it is quite rude to speak of the dead in such a manner.”

Crowley smiled, popping a stray grape into her mouth with dramatic flair. “Says the man who just called him an idiot.” 

“Excuse me, I do believe I was _quoting_ him.” Aziraphale reached for a grape himself, doing his best to look hurt as he tossed it into his mouth. An action which, as it turns out, is impossible.

“Well, I do know that I love listening to you talk about them, the stars. Even if I don’t understand everything you say.”

Crowley hummed in response. It was a conversation they had often— the stars. They always seemed to end up here, particularly late at night, when the wine had been drunk and the mood grew maudlin. Though he had so many questions, Aziraphale preferred to keep them to himself, most nights. He didn’t like seeing Crowley’s shoulders shrunken down like that, diminished by reflection. This was usually the moment when he changed the subject entirely.

But not this night.

“Crowley?”

“Yes, Aziraphale?”

“Do you miss it, terribly?”

“What, Heaven?” She knew what he meant. Of course she knew.

“Yes. Do you regret it? Asking questions?”

She burrowed deeper underneath her veil, as if suddenly met with a chill. Aziraphale reached for his mantel and wrapped it around the demon’s shoulders.

Crowley ignored the action. “I guess… that is to say, no. No, I don’t regret the questions. I regret their result, though.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Well, you certainly shouldn’t. You had no say in how they reacted. It was out of your hands.”

“Still. I’m broken though, aren’t I?” She’d said it so plainly, as if commenting on the weather or asking where Aziraphale would like to go for lunch. She said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

It broke Aziraphale’s heart, just a little.

“Crowley— no, don’t say that. That’s not what I —”

“But I am. It’s the truth, no point in avoiding it. You’ve read the books, yeah? You’ve heard what the humans think of us, us demons. We used to be perfect until we weren’t, until we screwed up irreparably. Now we’re the enemy of the world.”

“Well, you’re certainly not an enemy to _me_.”

“I literally am, you’ve said it yourself.” She scoffed, her eyes narrowing. “We are hereditary enemies.”

How Aziraphale wished he had never said such a thing! The sentence itself was a relic, from long before he’d heard Crowley laugh and knew that he wanted to hear that sound again. Aziraphale reprimanded himself in silence— he had been so foolish, back then. So ignorant.

“Alright,” he said, slowly. “According to angels, demons, theologians, and some deeply misguided philosophers, we are. We are hereditary enemies. But that astute assessment does not apply to _us_. Do you want to know why?”

“Why?” She sighed.

“Because we are not experts.”

Crowley leaned back, barely muffling a laugh. “That’s true.”

“Of course it’s true! Look at us, we, my dear, are _idiots._ ”

Crowley beamed. “Well, you did doubt that the stars are fire, Angel.”

The angel laughed. “I did, didn’t I?”

Crowley hummed in agreement, smiling to herself as she stifled a yawn. The night would soon give way to morning, and she felt the minutes ticking by as she waited desperately for something, anything, to happen.

“The thing I still can’t understand,” Crowley began, looking pensive, “is why She wouldn’t just kill creatures like me.”

“Demons?” Aziraphale asked, his smile dying on his lips. “Why ever would she do that?”

“Well, think about it. It’s got to be less trouble in the long run, eh? If demons weren’t around, then you lot could get Her work done much quicker. She wouldn’t have our many temptations to contend with, and evil would be successfully thwarted. Job well done.”

Aziraphale looked as though he’d been hit, angry and injured all at once. “Hardly.”

“Oh come on, you must see the convenience of it.”

Aziraphale scoffed. “Convenience, really? The convenience of it?”

Crowley merely shrugged.

“I hate it when you get like this, I really do.”

“Angels aren’t supposed to—”

“Oh hush, and don’t you dare tell me what it’s my business as an angel to do.”

“Oh, why? Because I’m not an angel like you?”

“No,” he said, his voice deep as the ocean. “Because you do not know your own worth.”

Aziraphale spoke slowly, taking up each of his words with care. “All creatures on this earth serve a purpose, I have to believe that. And you, my dear, are not something to snuff out like a candle simply because you asked questions.”

“You’re right,” Crowley responded, ruefully. “So I fell instead.”

“Yes, you fell. You fell and you’re different now, but you know what? You also stood up. You created the stars and lived to tell about them. It is impossible for me to believe that we who look up and marvel at the things you created are irreparably different.”

“But we are not the same,” Crowley hissed, “ _we_ are not meant to coexist like this. We do not live on your sunlit pedestals, angel. No light stems from us.”

“The sun moves.”

Crowley blinked. “And what could that _possibly_ have to do with our conversation?”

Aziraphale smiled, that coy little smirk that says he knows best. “The sun moves across the sky daily, yes?”

Crowley nodded.

“Well, isn’t that a relief? If it stayed always as it did today at noontime, high overhead and scorching those below, we would all be burning, would we not?”

“We would.” Crowley agreed.

“Well, regardless of what we are ‘meant to do,’ as you say, the sky changes around us just the same. The rain falls even in Eden and the sun burns there, too. No one dwells in the sun forever, nor does the rain wash out the world.”

“Except that one time.”

“Except that one time.”

“It is dark below,” Crowley admitted.

“And it is scorching among the clouds. It’s a good thing we are here, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Crowley smiled, “and the view isn’t half bad, either.”

“No, it certainly isn’t.”

They sat in silence for a while, watching the stars wielding overhead. Aziraphale knew his argument was far too simplistic to ever satisfy Crowley and all of her curiosity, but for the moment, it did the trick. It soothed the demon who still watched the sky like it was her job. 

Aziraphale would say anything to make Crowley realize that she was not all brokenness and scars. That she was the star-maker at heart, even on earth. But there is only so much one can achieve in a single night.

“Well, I think it’s time for me to turn in, Angel.” As if to illustrate her point, she yawned, stretching her hands overhead in a last ditch effort at summoning her energy. 

Her chiton sank lower on her shoulders as she did so, and all Aziraphale could think was _collarbones._

“Alright,” he began, amazed at the steadiness of his own voice. “Have a good sleep, my dear. And I hope I didn’t pester you too much, with my questions.”

Crowley hesitated, her hand on the railing. “You could never, I think.”

“You think?” 

“I do.”

With a smile, Crowley descended the narrow staircase, leaving Aziraphale with a thousand questions under the infinite universe.

Aziraphale was to leave for Athens the next day. As if in compensation, he spent the morning as he liked best, enjoying a light breakfast with Crowley while they bickered over what ought to be considered ‘breakfast food.’ (Aziraphale was adamant that feta cheese be accepted as a common element, an argument with which Crowley vehemently disagreed.)

Their decision to dine in the garden came naturally. The air within the walls was so stifling and humid, and the tricking sounds of the pond water gave them the illusion of coolness. They dragged the table and benches out into the grass without comment and took their accustomed places. 

Aziraphale, who hated the heat, fanned himself as he ate.

Crowley, on the other hand, was in paradise. Her serpentine aspect delighted in it, and she easily laid herself down on the bench, her left foot dangling haphazardly over the side as she gazed up at the morning sky, her ivory skin and black linens absorbing the heat.

It really was _dreadfully_ unfair.

Aziraphale almost wished he never had to leave. It was an appealing idea; resigning from his job as an art dealer only to bar the doors of the villa and remain inside with Crowley and enough miracled feta to last them each the rest of their eternal lives. But, truth be told, Aziraphale liked his job. On some days, he would even say he loved it. He loved traveling the world, searching out the latest innovations of human artists. He loved the way some mortals lived, aware of their impending doom and using the time they had to give birth to beauty. Their love was a noble one, and as a being of love, Aziraphale saw it as his duty to preserve it by hoarding it as much as possible.

The book shop was, at one time, a gallery.

He’d considered commissioning a portrait of Crowley to decorate his villa, but soon decided against it. It seemed like an impossible task to assign to any poor human, no matter their skill. They would never be able to capture the details— the face full of freckles, the amber glow of her hair in the sunlight— no one could possibly reproduce the woman Aziraphale knew.

It almost made him want to become an apprentice, just to see if he could manage it.

Ultimately, it was the kohl that got to him. The gentle sweep of it on Crowley’s eyelids that highlighted her brilliant yellow eyes all the more. Like Crowley, it was dark and dramatic, and the application of it fascinated Aziraphale. It was so deeply intimate, to watch his friend leaned over the mirror, beautifying herself and inspecting her handiwork. She looked like a painting, sometimes.

“Angel?” Crowley snapped a finger in front of Aziraphale’s distant face, a scolding hand raised up above the table cloth. “You’re not listening to me.”

“So sorry, my dear. What were you saying?”

“I was saying that I’ll have to leave soon so that you can get on with your trip.”

Aziraphale frowned as he plucked another grape from the vine. “You could always stay here, you know. You don’t have to leave on account of me.”

Slowly, Crowley roused herself to a seated position. “Mmm, yes, well…probably not helpful. Wouldn’t want Downstairs to hear about that.”

“Yes, of course.” Aziraphale tried his best not to look disappointed. He knew the risks, but he was young (relatively speaking), and danger is just a whisper, in the beginning.

“May I ask you a question?”

Crowley’s brow was wet with sweat in the heat and she looked as though she were about to melt. “Ngk. Uh, go on then.”

“Why haven’t you done your makeup?”

The demon blushed as she ran a hand over her hair, anxiously. “Well, you don’t have to go pointing out things like that.”

“No! No, I didn’t mean anything by it, I just…”

“You just what?”

“I was just wondering whether you’d ever…I don’t know. Allow me to help you? With your makeup, I mean?”

Crowley nearly choked on her feta. “You want to help me with my makeup?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“Do you even know how to do it?”

“I don’t, but I’d be willing to learn.”

Crowley considered it, turning it over like a military manoeuvre, attempting to examine the proposal from every angle. 

Eventually, she surrendered. “I suppose.”

Crowley laid out her cosmetics on the table: a tin of kohl, and a small palette of rouge for her cheeks. 

“It’s easy enough to do,” she told Aziraphale, kneeling down to sit across from him. “You just take a little rouge on your finger, and dab the tops of your cheeks.”

“Of _your_ cheeks, you mean.”

“Uh, yes, _that._ ”

“Like this?” 

Aziraphale followed Crowley’s instructions and began gently dabbing the red pigment across the apples of Crowley’s cheeks, which were growing redder by the moment. The demon kept her eyes downcast, focusing on Aziraphale’s hand as it worked its gentle ministrations.

It was liberating, in a sense, to breech the no man’s land that had arisen between them. A feigned interest in cosmetics was all it took to give the two a reason. Aziraphale the art collector, always interested in beatification and artistic flair. It made Crowley feel exposed, to have the angel so close at hand, painting her skin. It made her shiver just to think about Aziraphale painting _her._

Aziraphale, on the other hand, felt more like a sculptor. He wanted to feel the skin beneath his hands; the curve of high cheekbones, the way they shone when Crowley smiled. If Aziraphale were a sculptor, then he had the easiest task in the world before him. His hands ran over clay that was already shaped, already molded into perfection. All he had to do was admire it; memorize it. Memorize the day that he spent in the sun with living art.

Crowley coughed, breaking the silence. “And here is the brush for the kohl.”

She handed it to Aziraphale. “You have to go very slowly, or it will look crooked.”

“I will,” he promised.

“I don’t want you making me look ridiculous.”

“Now when have you ever looked ridiculous?”

Crowley muttered something incoherent before looking away.

“You can’t do that,” Aziraphale scolded her.

“Can’t do what?” 

“Look away. I have to be able to see you, to make this work.”

Crowley sighed. Slinking her shoulders back, she met Aziraphale’s eyes head-on. The glow of her serpentine eyes was mesmerizing. “This better?”

“Perfect.”

Willing his hand to stop its quiet trembling, Aziraphale picked up the brush and set to work. He dipped it in water before scraping it against the kohl palette, making sure to saturate the brush on all sides. He was keenly aware that Crowley was watching him intently through slackened eyelids. 

Crowley almost gave away the game, there. With the angel’s eyes focused solely on her and his hand so delicately dancing at the edges of her vision, she wanted to reach out and take it. To tell him, _‘to hell with the kohl and to hell with your trip,’_ and kiss him right there in the courtyard. But she said nothing. She barely had air to breathe.

“Almost done with the first one, my dear.” Aziraphale leaned back, inspecting his handiwork with pride. He traced a thumb under the wing, sharpening the line. 

“My heavens, don’t you look stunning.” He dipped the brush back into the kohl, preparing for the second half of his task. “Absolutely beautiful.”

And that was it. Something cataclysmic clicked in Crowley’s brain and the game was lost. Caught up in his task, Aziraphale had performed a crucial misstep. He had called Crowley beautiful.

The word had barely left his mouth before the demon was on her feet, feigning excuses as she rushed out the door, one eye naked and the other adorned.

That day in Egypt had been their first mistake.

Perhaps this thing between them was never easy. Perhaps it had always been the hardest thing in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! This was a really fun flashback to explore, especially while listening to Folklore (don't @ me), and thinking, 'yup. This is going in the fic.' lol. I'm currently living for anxious Crowley, unable to cope with compliments.


	3. The Loneliest Historian

Crowley awoke with a pounding headache, his long limbs sprawled across his couch and the rug beneath it. He dangled precariously over the edge as he reached for his phone and groaned when he saw the time.

10am. 

The events of the night before had exhausted him, and a haze of memories hung over him as he forced himself awake. 

Two crucial facts pushed their way to the front of his mind:

1) He had kissed Aziraphale. No, better— the angel had kissed _him._  
2) Aziraphale had asked him to stop.

An inescapable conclusion was taking root in his mind— that he had done something deeply wrong.

 _But what?_ Aziraphale had kissed him first; that had to mean something. That he had, for however brief a moment, _wanted_ Crowley. 

He had watched as the angel retrieved the basin from the back of his cluttered shop, filled it with water, and bathed Crowley’s feet. After years spent wishing he could take care of Aziraphale (in what way? In every way), it had never occurred to him that Aziraphale might want to do the same. He trembled just to think it: Aziraphale, a Principality, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, had knelt before him with a washcloth and a soft expression, and washed Crowley’s feet. The feet of a demon. 

Tentatively, he pulled down the tall wooden sock, revealing his right foot. The burns were still present, but less tender. Already they were changing colour, his demonic essence working at the edge of the holy scars, dismantling them bit by bit. 

It occurred to Crowley that one miracle could cure them forever. He wouldn’t have to repeat the process of cleaning and re-creaming them. He wouldn’t have to worry about what shoes he wore or whether passersby could tell that he was walking on the outer edges of his feet, shielding the tender parts. But he didn’t. His scars were the only evidence that last night had been real. That Aziraphale had taken care of him, and kissed him, _and, and, and._

Crowley shuddered at the memory. If the angel thought that Crowley was worth caring for, then he must have good reason. Perhaps because he was an angel, and it is the task of angels to care for all things.

Perhaps because of something else entirely.

Crowley rose with a groan and began brewing a pot of coffee. It was much too early for the thoughts swirling around his head.

He carefully measured out the grinds and added them to boiling water, leaning over the counter to watch as the mixture passed through the strainer, trickling slowly into his cup. He willed the droplets to fall faster with his sour gaze alone. If demons are unacquainted with virtue, then Patience must be a particularly venomous enemy. For it eluded Crowley like the plague, while he tapped his foot and muttered curses and waited for the days to end.

Perhaps that is why he hated history so passionately.

Don’t get him wrong, some of it was rather interesting. Much of it was, if he was being completely honest with himself. He liked the way humans analyzed disaster. He read with interest about the various historical approaches, learned about schools of thought and which scholars to avoid and which to embrace for their honesty. He read Woodman’s critiques of the historian Thucydides with a seething hatred (how could he claim that the historian had lied when he himself wasn’t even _there?_ ). And he admired the way Walter Otto wrote about Greek plays with such a passion, as if he was able to understand implicitly the value of the ancient playwrights even from his vantage point in 19th century Germany. 

Crowley felt a kinship with these scholars who sat in their dusty studies and analyzed the evidence left behind by time. They made their lives by looking back, just as Crowley had done for thousands of years.

His favourite scholars were also the most debated— the revisionists. He loved revisionist history; the theories and the possibilities it harboured. The what-ifs of the past all laid out in imaginative designs. The revisionists were fearless. They asked questions like, _‘what if x had never happened?’_ or, _‘if x had happened instead, where would we be today?’_

Crowley asked himself these things, too.

In his mind, he transfigured his time in Egypt a million different ways by trading one element for another. _What if I had kissed him, right then? What if I hadn’t run? If I had had the courage to stay, what then?_

_Would it have mattered?_

_Does it matter now?_

He dragged a hand down his face. If only that one hot, Egyptian morning had never happened, happiness might be his.

But it _did_ happen. And he needed to find a way to move on, to hell with the histories. He was tired of running away.

When his vigorous, one-sided debate (half thought, half shouted at the quivering plants) had run its course, he cleaned his already minimalist apartment and successfully arrived at the end of his rope.

He’d screamed at the plants for twenty minutes, all because they reminded him of lotus leaves. And the apology he gave took nearly twice as long.

Through it all, _Egypt_ sat on the tip of his tongue.

Taking a seat at his desk, he produced his finest stationary and a fountain pen. He rolled it over in his hands, inspecting the sleek blackness of it and miracling a fresh inkwell at his side. The lonesome thing had suffered from want of use for the past century. He’d purchased it to write letters to Aziraphale; _without Aziraphale to write letters to, what purpose could it serve?_

In the end, he bowed to history, and gave it a space:

Aziraphale,

Do you still doubt that the stars are fire?

If so, meet me at St. James’ Park tomorrow. 12pm.

Crowley.

The remembering consumed the morning, and it was nearly one o’clock before he pulled up at the corner and began making his way to the old wooden door. 

The ‘Closed’ sign in the window was only natural, he told himself. If the roles were reversed, Crowley wouldn’t want to find himself loitering on the doorstep either.

With a wavering breath, he slipped the edge of the envelope through the slot.

The door was thrown open before his foot had hit the road.

“Crowley?”

He turned, wanting to smile, but feeling incapable of it. “Aziraphale.”

The angel hesitated in the doorway, staring down at the letter he held in his hand. His cardigan was thrown haphazardly around his shoulders. It looked old and worn, and so incredibly _soft._ Crowley resisted the urge to reach out and touch it.

“You wrote me a letter.” 

“I did,” Crowley replied, nodding.

The angel began tearing it open.

“I’m not a good writer,” Crowley warned. “I do much better in person.”

Aziraphale nodded in agreement, reading it over. “I should say so. At least no one can ever call you overly loquacious.”

“So I’m no Cicero then?”

“Thank Heavens not,” Aziraphale said, quirking a smile. “I’d need to carve out an hour just to read the introduction.”

Crowley chuckled and Aziraphale wanted to hug him for it.

“And is that a reference to our time in Egypt? The bit about the stars?”

Crowley swallowed, making a mental note to buy larger sunglasses. “It was.”

“Right. It seems that even in speech you aren’t the loquacious type; at least not today. Barely a word out of you at all.” He turned, as if to leave. 

It looked half-hearted, even to Crowley.

“You’re right.” He said, quickly. “It was a reference to Egypt. When we were…better, to each-other.”

Aziraphale nodded, remembering. “Yes, I do believe we were.”

His hair was the same now as it was then; Crowley appreciated that about him. That he so seldom changed, lagging behind in fashion sense and the new turns of phrase. His sameness made every change a revelation, and every well-established pattern a relief. His hair glowed almost silver under the light of the streetlamp. It had looked the same years ago, in front of a bonfire on a villa rooftop.

Crowley’s staring couldn’t be helped. There’s not much to be done when time is collapsing in front of you.

“Look, I— I know that you are upset with me. I know that we have been avoiding this kind of conversation for a long time, but if you are even vaguely invested in its outcome…will you have lunch with me?”

Aziraphale smiled, folding the letter and tucking it into the pocket of his cardigan. “Of course; just let me get my coat.”

Crowley frowned. “What, now?”

“Yes, now. Unless you have something else scheduled?”

“No, it’s just— the letter…”

Crowley had scheduled the meeting tomorrow for a reason— so that he would have one night and half a day to obsessively pace, clean, and reorganize his apartment. He felt he still had a fair amount of brooding to do before returning to his life.

“Yes, I know, but unfortunately I have a meeting tomorrow afternoon that I simply cannot chuck. And, since there’s no time like the present…” Aziraphale ducked inside, retrieving his overcoat as well as a cream-coloured scarf which he wrapped snuggly around his neck. “All ready?”

Crowley thinks he said ‘yes,’ but who the hell knows?

The walk to the Ritz was timid, at first. As each was anxious not to step on the other’s toes (metaphorically), they kept to safer waters. Aziraphale told Crowley of his newest treasures for the bookshop, and scolded him for not wearing warmer clothing in November— a charge which Crowley fervently refuted, even as he willed his teeth to keep from chattering as they crossed the street.

Crowley’s life, he was convinced, was much less interesting. But he answered the angel’s questions just the same. Lately, he had been successfully taking credit for a myriad of misfortunes in London that he had nothing at all to do with. In fact, all he seemed to do these days was listen. He listened for the bombers and he listened to the whispers in the park, trying to glean their intentions and whether or not a certain angel might be involved. 

He most definitely did _not_ tell Aziraphale that last part. It would have gone straight to his head.

Crowley had never been to the Ritz before, having slept through its opening in 1906. It was marvellous, despite the pieces of damaged buildings being swept and carried away from its entrance. 

It really is amazing, Crowley thought, how luxury and splendour can coexist with tragedy. In the Ritz, the silverware is freshly polished and the music is soft and welcoming, while champagne is sipped from glasses that might be shattered only the next morning along with everything else.

It all reminded him of Aziraphale; a fact that resounded with the hopelessness of Crowley’s condition. And it wasn’t just the way the angel lit up as he entered the building, or the love he seemed to harbour for this place and the little luxuries within. No, the place reminded him of Aziraphale because it was warm like him. Inviting. No one inside its walls wanted for anything more, while outside everyone was starved for something. 

It all made Crowley feel a bit out of place. His clothes were dark and gloomy compared to the silks, pearls, and vibrancy around him. His rail-thin frame felt like a glaring contrast to the warm polish of his surroundings, and he worried that he might answer any question he was asked too loudly for the quiet conversations circulating around him. 

If Aziraphale noticed his discomfort, he said nothing. Instead, he politely asked Crowley where he might like to sit (window, or corner?) and what he planned on eating. He took Crowley’s accustomed passivity in stride, and soon they were seated at the centre of the room, listening as the sounds of clinking glasses and classical music washed over them. Crowley made a mental note to tip the piano player on his way out— his languid tunes filled the silences easily.

Before they had even ordered, Crowley decided that he loved this place of warmth and sweet monotonies. In every sparking glass and polished plate, he saw reflected back at him the grace of the angel seated across from him and the darkness that clung to his side, wanting to be looked at. To be seen. Always hungry for something.

Crowley was always hungry for something.

He must have lost track of his thoughts, because when he returned to himself, Aziraphale was seated across from him, staring.

“Sorry,” Crowley said, instinctively.

“Nothing to apologize for, my dear. You just look very pensive all of a sudden, that’s all.”

“Ah, you know me, angel—” he longed for a full glass to sip and hide behind “—not a whole lot going on behind the glasses.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Hardly. You know I’ve always admired you for your cleverness.”

Crowley nearly choked on the food he was not eating. “’s not what you said before.”

Aziraphale shot him a startled look.

“You said we were _idiots._ ”

The angel relaxed at that. “Yes, the operative word being _we_! I said we were idiots. You do quite well on your own, I’m sure.”

Crowley laughed amicably in response, wondering whether or not Aziraphale’s statement had ever been at all true. He must have done well for himself at some point. Perhaps sometime before Eden.

They ordered their food and watched as the waitress poured their champagne, all three equally unsure of what exactly they were celebrating. She smiled at them a moment too long and Crowley wondered whether she had thought they were on a date. 

He asked himself the same question.

He was still puzzling over it when she returned, setting their food down in front of them. Aziraphale had ordered some sort of elaborate soup and he had heard himself requesting the same before he’d had time to weigh his options. The less speaking he had to do, the better. And besides, he never ate much of his meals with Aziraphale anyway. His nervousness stops him, every time.

Beneath the table, Crowley’s foot tapped on, ready for the next moment to be consigned to history. The moment when Aziraphale would force him out into the open. He raised a spoonful to his mouth, simply to have something to do.

“So,” Aziraphale began, “it seems like a good time to have that talk, now.”

“You think so?”

“I do indeed. Although I must admit, I would have much preferred to have done this two hundred and twenty years ago.”

“Two hundred years?” Crowley laughed, “try two thousand.”

His laughter sounded hollow, even to him.

“Two thousand?” Aziraphale asked, quirking his head curiously. “You mean, Egypt?”

“Yes, of course I mean Egypt,” Crowley spat, annoyed. _How could he not remember?_ Crowley had been obsessing over that day for years; _how could he possibly not remember?_

Perhaps because it had never mattered to Aziraphale in the same way. Perhaps Crowley was wrong again, revising the history of a day that mattered to no one but himself. 

“Egypt was lovely,” Aziraphale admitted, shifting in his seat. “You were lovely.”

Someone up there in Heaven must really have it out for Crowley. Probably Gabriel. He’d never liked him. Wanker.

“You said that I was beautiful,” Crowley said it with the voice of a historian, distrustful and examining. “Did you mean it?”

A pained expression crossed Aziraphale’s face as he thrust his champagne flute aside. “Of course I meant it. What sort of question is that?”

Crowley ignored him. He sank back into his chair in silence, trying to work out what kind of game Aziraphale might be playing.

Aziraphale just watched him, unfazed. “I told you that I thought you were beautiful, and you ran from me. I haven’t forgotten Egypt, Crowley; quite the opposite, in fact. I couldn’t have imagined us having this conversation two thousand years ago because…”

Now he was just being mean.

“Because…? Spit it out, Angel!”

“Because you left me there!” He cried.

The abrupt rise in Aziraphale’s voice caught the attention of their fellow diners, who turned their heads towards them only to return to their own affairs when Crowley openly glowered at them.

“I did not…” Crowley faltered, “leaving you there was not the same as leaving you.”

“Well, it sure felt like it.”

Aziraphale looked as miserable as Crowley felt. He stared down into his soup while his hands sat dejectedly in his lap. 

Crowley had done this. He had gone too far (he’s always going too far, too fast) and now the angel was sad in his favourite place. He had to say something else— anything to get his mind away from whatever crevice it had fallen into. 

Although, in a way, it was bound to happen, wasn’t it? Crowley was a _demon._ He was himself a shadow; not a person or an angel, but a black, nebulous shadow. It seeped out of his soul, contaminating his vessel. That’s why, he felt certain, he was so thin and gangly. Like his very essence was sucking the life out of his body. You know how angels represent all that is good and righteous and _whole?_ Well Crowley is the opposite. And his emptiness makes him hungry. It makes him lean closer to Aziraphale when he speaks, listening. It makes him review the panels of his life like a film reel, scanning for the missteps so that he can get it right the next time. So that he can get one more smile and, for a moment, feel less empty than he had been without it. 

He had to course-correct, but Aziraphale was, as always, one step ahead of him.

“All I know is, I thought that we were _happy,_ Crowley. I thought that things between us were absolutely wonderful, and then I told you that and you shut me out.”

“I know.”

“…And I knew then that I had gone too far. You were just being friendly, of course you were.” His smile looked more like a crack. “We were friends, after all. Nothing more. I had simply misread things, and, as I have done in the past, I apologize for my behaviour.”

He nodded once and took in a mouthful of soup with an utterly blank expression.

“You didn’t, though.” _This must be what it feels like to be on fire,_ he thought.

“Didn’t what?”

Crowley sighed. “You didn’t misread things, Angel. I was just afraid.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “Afraid of… _me?_

Crowley shook his head and downed the rest of his champagne. “I don’t know! Afraid that you were having a go at me. Afraid that maybe, once you left for Athens, you would return to your interesting life, full of interesting people, and you wouldn’t want to spend time with me anymore.”

_“Crowley.”_

“I mean, sure, you can say those things in the villa, where it’s just you and me, but that’s not real life. It’s just a vacation house, for you. And I didn’t want to be that.”

“A vacation?” Aziraphale asked, incredulous.

“Well, yes.”

The angel leaned forward in his seat, a challenging look in his eye. “Have you really not the slightest clue what you are to me?”

Crowley just blinked, afraid to move or speak or breathe.

“I meant every word I said, my dear. And that was no vacation house; I’ll thank you never to disparage my home in that manner again. That was my _home,_ Crowley. One that I had boughten for you.”

“For me?” He choked on the words, wondering whether this is what it feels like to experience massive heart failure.

“You don’t think I did business in Egypt because it was fun, do you?”

“But…the sculptors there…” He remembered Aziraphale taking his arm, leading him from treasure room to treasure room.

“…Are excellent, yes. Some of the best in the world. But you can find good art anywhere, if you know how and where to look. I purchased that home because it was closer to you and for no other reason.”

“What about your life in Greece?” He gaped. “I would have gone with you, if you’d asked.”

Aziraphale softened at that; the tension around his eyes dissipating in a moment’s notice. “That would have been very good of you. But I know how you liked it in Egypt— how much you love the heat. You wouldn’t have been happy anywhere else.”

“I am _certain_ when I say that you are wrong on that point.”

The angel grinned. “Am I?”

“Definitely. I’ve had more than two thousand years to think on it.”

Aziraphale hummed in agreement. He reached across the table and took Crowley’s hand in his, stroking the back of it with his thumb. An olive branch extended.

Crowley, paralyzed, squeezed back. He let Aziraphale get back to his meal (with his free hand), and as he did so, Crowley became the historian once more. He scoured the scene for facts and images, burning into his mind the feeling of Aziraphale’s hand in his, the looks he kept flashing Crowley’s way as he ate, like the food before him was the least interesting thing in the room. 

Aziraphale hadn’t been lying, after all. He had been sincere— more than sincere, he had built them a home. He’d wanted them to be together and Crowley had spent the last two thousand years ignorant of his feelings. He hated himself for leading them so far astray nearly as much as he adored Aziraphale for reaching out to him once more; for giving him a steady place to land.

They finished up their meal in relative silence, appreciating the new understanding between them and speaking nothing of importance or urgency. It felt nice. A glimpse into a routine they might one day establish, falling into it happily.

As they stepped outside, Aziraphale tugged Crowley closer and wrapped his scarf around his neck before the demon had time to catch his bearings. He wrinkled his nose at the ecru cashmere, which was much too light and too soft for Crowley’s outfit and general demeanour, but he made no effort to remove it. It smelled like old books and cinnamon. Like the librarian who owned it.

Crowley took his arm in appreciation, though he longed to take much, much more than that. Drunk on contract and company and a fair amount of champagne, Crowley leaned on another person for the first time in centuries. The hand on his in the restaurant was the gentlest form of torture. It electrified Crowley to be able to do this— to reach out with a certainty that wasn’t there even an hour ago. He’d dreamt of touching Aziraphale for years and every little brush between them was kind and earth-shattering and never enough. 

They slowed their pace as they neared the bookshop, neither one wanting to part from the other. The front stoop was reached with much reluctance.

“Well,” said Aziraphale, “I suppose this is goodbye for now.”

“What, you’re not going to invite me inside for a drink, like old times?” He waggled his eyebrows, daring him to change his mind.

But the angel was firm. “I’m afraid I can’t.”

“Oh.” Crowley said, nodding. “Ok.”

“No, it’s nothing personal! It’s just that I have Gabriel and Bellerophon coming tomorrow for an update, and I don’t want you anywhere near the shop when they arrive.”

He reached down for Crowley’s hand, giving it a supportive squeeze. “We’ve come much too far for one of those meddling angels to take this from us.”

Crowley squeezed back. “I don’t know, I’m pretty sure I could handle Gabriel in a fight. I’ve been itching to give him a piece of my mind for years.”

“I know, dear.”

“A wanker is what he is.”

“Yes I quite know your feelings on the subject.” He tried (and failed) to conceal his smile. “But promise me you won’t be here tomorrow, hmm?”

“I promise, Angel.”

“Very good. And I’ll try to stop by your apartment afterwards, if it’s not too late.”

“It won’t be.” He vowed.

Aziraphale’s smile was the last thing he remembers before Aziraphale’s lips collided with his. He felt a pair of warm hands take him by the shoulders, followed by a hand trailing down his front and back up to rest on the curve of his cheek. The pressure against his lips was light as a feather. Delicate. Too much and not enough in the same moment. The angel’s lips were warm in the cold and Crowley leaned closer, laying his hands reverently at the base of Aziraphale’s neck. He felt the pulse beneath them, hurried and sure, and he worried he was about to discorporate right there on a street corner in Soho. 

Was that because of _him?_ This change in Aziraphale, the wanton eagerness of his hands, his lips, his heart. 

He hoped so.

He swiped his tongue experimentally across Aziraphale’s lower lip and the angel whimpered against him, bringing his hand to thread through the hairs at the base of Crowley’s neck. The sound was so helpless and sweet and uncontrolled. It made him wonder what other sounds the angel might mutter against his lips, and he felt desperate to know them all. To drag them from him, one by one with travelling lips. He could feed on those sounds forever. His mouth kissing and sucking until those lips held Crowley’s name loosely.

 _Sing them back to me,_ he wanted to say, _the feelings I can draw from you._

Gently, angel pulled away, two thousand years too late. “I should be going.”

Crowley nodded, spellbound. He backed away from the stoop as Aziraphale turned his key in the lock. 

“Angel, wait.” Crowley called after him, his voice thick.

He turned in the doorway. “Yes, dear?”

“When you said that we should have had this conversation two hundred years ago…”

“Yes?”

“Well, am I forgetting something?”

A smile ghosted over his face. It made him appear younger than he was, for a moment. Funny, that old time-machine called reminiscence. 

“Russia.” He said. “1727.”

_Oh._

“Thank you for lunch, Crowley.” 

The angel smiled at him and then disappeared among the books and files.

The historian, as he was accustomed to do, got into his car and took the long way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let the pining continue! Thrilled to be disparaging my least favourite scholar in this delightful fic (get wrecked, Woodman, you know what you did). Also, I've decided that it is now my personal goal to refer to Gabriel in every fic I write as a 'wanker,' and I am very proud of that. :D


	4. Russia 1727

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have been reading this fic from the beginning (thank you), please note that the tags/ratings for this fic have now been changed. There is significant smut to follow, and there will (I can only assume) be much more of it in the future. I'm talking a copious amount of smut, here. If this makes you at all uncomfortable, feel free to stop reading. You do you, as the adage goes...
> 
> And now, back to your not-so-regularly scheduled programming.

**Russia, 1727**

“I am _not_ going to a society affair.”

“Antony, please, you have to go. I have a mountain of work to do here, and I have a lecture to write on top of it all.” The disgruntled professor ran an anxious hand through his hair. “You know I would do the same for you.”

He would, Crowley knew. Why on earth he had gotten into academics, he couldn’t say, but friends like Mikhail made it easier. His poor English and Crowley’s middling Russian made for a fine companionship. The poor man, drowning in unmarked essays and threadbare tweeds was the closest thing Crowley had had to a friend in centuries, if you didn’t count the one.

And Crowley didn’t. Whatever it was that existed between he and Aziraphale, ‘friend’ didn’t begin to cover it. And it was hardly the sort of thing he could bring up in a letter.

Could you imagine? 

_Dear Aziraphale, sorry to bother you, but you may have noticed that I’ve been incapable of thinking about anyone else for centuries, and perhaps you might like to pop over for a visit and do something about my misery?_

Insufferable is what it was.

If their first mistake had been Egypt, then their staunch refusal to acknowledge the incident had been their second. In favour of the old and reliable Arrangement, compliments were generally elided in favour of gentle teasing, careless brushes of hands were strictly avoided, and they gave in to Business As Usual. 

Safer waters sound like a sanctuary, until you’re drowning in them. It would take a cataclysmic event to cross the divide again.

Crowley sighed, knowing his answer since the moment Mikhail ran into their shared office with a briefcase in his tired hand. “Where is the party?”

A devilish grin crossed Mikhail’s face, “my friend, I am so glad you ask this.”

It must be said that the Imperial Palace was not Crowley’s idea of a night on the town. It was too posh, too extravagant, and far too loud for his liking. The reflective surfaces of metallic architectural fixtures and polished silverware caught the reflections of ballgowns and dinner jackets, giving the grand ballroom an expansive, otherworldly feel. While the angelic, fresco-dwelling figures affixed to the ceilings above appeared light and airy, the main floor was densely crowded with jewels and aristocracy. 

_Hell,_ Crowley thought, _was less crowded than this place, and a lot less pompous._

But, Mikhail had asked for a favour. As the official biographer for Tsar Peter II, the historian’s presence was required at every royal function, no matter how mundane. Crowley knew that Mikhail dreaded the honour more than he let on. High society had never mattered much to him, but the history did. So he attended, faded leather notebook in hand, every dinner party and wedding ceremony.

Apart from tonight. Tonight, Crowley would be taking his place, with a notebook chalked full of notes for Mikhail’s book as well as his own musings in Russian, which were becoming more coherent by the day.

Languages had always been difficult for Crowley. Speaking was fine, if you excuse the odd stutter or mispronounced word (Aziraphale always did). But writing was different. Late at night and in the early morning, wires got crossed. Greek words ran into German in his mind, and his Hebrew was a lost cause. He spoke the words aloud just to hear where the accents lived, but distrusted his hand to get them right.

It was for this reason that he never wrote to anyone (apart from Mikhail) in Russian, although he spoke it fairly well. The language intrigued him; it was unlike any other he had ever heard before. The harsh inflections, the elegant rolling and trilling of the tongue— the language seemed to possess an emotionality unlike any other. After so many years spent in Western Europe, the foreignness of the Slavic tongue was enchanting. Learning to master it (or, at least understand it) was a welcomed reprieve from his typical line of thought, which devolved quickly from reminiscence into revisionist history. 

For Crowley, Russia was modern; the start of something new.

Well, not entirely new. He was the research assistant to a historian, after all. But asking Crowley to surrender the past entirely would have been a difficult sell.

And Crowley had in his arsenal a tool prized by historians and investigative reporters alike— a talent for disguise.

“Excuse me, madam. May I have your name?” The attendant asked, eyes already scanning the guest list as Crowley approached.

“Of course,” she said. “Antonia Crowley; guest of Mikhail Nikolaev.”

He nodded, neatly striking her name from the list. “Enjoy your evening.”

“I’ll certainly try,” she muttered, her eyes glowering behind her tinted frames.

The gown had been an easy choice— if a lady is to attend a party against her will, she might as well look the part. Antonia's cherry-red silken gown highlighted her figure nicely before fanning out into an empire waist. The swathes of black lace that hung on either side of her waistline down to her shoes matched the intricate design of her glasses, which concealed the most expressive part of her. A detailed pattern of scalloped lace lined her neck and the dropped shoulders of her gown. The high curve of it gave her the impression of a reptilian display. Elegant, but clear. _Do not speak to her,_ they said, _this one bites._

She was here to listen, after all; to take notes. She was not here to be noticed or, god forbid, talked to. Mikhail’s notebook was burning a hole in her pocket. She was to take note of any interesting bits of information gleaned from overheard dinner conversations and upper class mingling. Despite having been commissioned by the Tsar himself, Mikhail was uncompromising in his task: he was a historian, and his biography would reflect that. He was not here to be a fawning sycophant, nor was Antonia.

Grabbing a drink, she pushed her way to a small table at the edge of the room; prime seating for the watchful. She took a drink.

“Pardon me, but do you speak Russian?”

“Do I look like a translator?” She spat, doing her best to ignore the unwanted attention.

Out of the corner of her eye, Antonia spotted the hem of cream coloured skirts. She sighed. She was here to observe, not to mingle. And what would she have to say for herself, anyway? She didn’t belong here in this place of luxury and expenditure, and she was certain that any other stranger in the glittering ballroom would agree with her.

The figure simply leaned closer; insistent.

“Look, I’m not here to socialize, so if you wouldn’t mind—”

 _“Crowley?”_ The woman gaped at him expectantly while Antonia lost her grip on English, Russian, or any other language.

“Aziraphale.”

The angel before her was radiant. Her hair was coiffed neatly into a complicated hairstyle and secured in place with a single, wrapped braid. The bodice of her gown was embroidered with a golden filigree, and Aziraphale’s usual beige overcoat was preserved in the form of a cream-coloured taffeta train. Characteristically, she still managed to trail delightfully behind the times. Her long chiffon sleeves were tapered at her wrists and trailed down into dramatic bell sleeves. 

Antonia was spellbound.

“Is this seat taken?” The angel asked, her eyes darting between her friend and the empty space next to her.

“Umm no. That is to say, yes, it’s yours.”

“Why thank you.” She sat down and began smoothing the front of her dress around her. “I am rather relieved to find you here, my dear.”

That was a good sign, surely.

“You are?”

“Absolutely. You would not _believe_ the conversation I was trapped in only moments ago.” She rolled her eyes as she flung a stray curl from her brow. “I had to tell them I had come here with you just to escape from it.”

Scratch that— a bad sign. She had sought her out for a favour. Antonia was always saving her from something.

She watched, dumbfounded, as Aziraphale produced a wide, white-feathered fan and began fluttering it in front of herself. How on earth was she able to make everything seem so _easy?_

“So why are you here?” She blurted. 

It was a question far more preferable than the dreaded, _‘are you here with anyone?’_

She sighed, blowing at a loose curl in the corner of her vision; an action which Antonia found more endearing than she ought to. “I’ve been hired by Peter to acquire some art for the palace. He invited me to his birthday party as a thank-you.”

 _Typical Aziraphale,_ Antonia thought. _I’ve been here struggling to learn Russian and to make my own way while Aziraphale was busy socializing with the bloody Tsar._

“You don’t say?”

She nodded. The gentle action loosed another curl of hair at her ear, and Antonia resisted the urge to reach out and sweep it back. She took another drink.

“And why are you here tonight, my dear? I knew you were living in Russia, but I hadn’t expected you’d be wining and dining with the royal family.”

“I was invited.”

“Oh?” 

Antonia sighed. Aziraphale looked so hopeful, sitting across from her. With her wide eyes and gentle expression, as if meeting Antonia had been a happy accident instead of a massive, universal mistake. A cruel game played by the universe to torment her.

_Why now? After all this time…_

“I’m here on work too, actually. I’m a Research Assistant at the Tsarskoye Selo Lyceum in St. Petersburg.”

“Oh my. Congratulations, Crowley!”

“Antonia for tonight, Angel.” 

“Ah. So sorry, Antonia.” Something resembling fondness took root in her expression. “That is quite an honour.”

“Yeah, well…my employer has been commissioned by the Tsar to write a biography of his life. As a benefit— or a punishment, who knows —he invites us to royal occasions to observe and document.”

Aziraphale nodded thoughtfully. “And is your employer here tonight?”

“No. Mikhail sent me in his stead. He’s overwhelmed with work at the moment, and he isn’t one for fancy places.”

“You two have that in common, then.”

Antonia shrugged, unsure whether to feel seen or exposed. “I suppose.”

“So you’re here to do what exactly? Take notes?”

Antonia produced the small black notebook from her dress-pocket and waved it in the air. “Take notes, enjoy some wine, and socialize a bit—with angels, apparently.”

Aziraphale smiled, her eyes falling to the table. “Apparently.”

Over a floral centrepiece and heaps of discarded wine glasses, they examined each other. For years they had visited one another on their way to something else— something more important. This chance encounter was an outlier. Both bedazzled in their ballgowns, each pursuing their own business in their chosen fields. They had their own lives to attend to and neither one had come tonight at the call of the other. Common ground had found them at last. Antonia hardly knew whether to jump for joy, scream, or plead illness and return to her little apartment in the square.

Such a shame that demons cannot catch a cold.

Antonia’s internal crisis was supplemented by the grand orchestra, which plunged on ahead in the background, oblivious to the demon’s distress. Its symphonic energy gave host to a sea of twirling couples who danced in sweet unison, but the beating of Antonia’s heart took precedence, drowning out the quaint commotion to little more than a dull roar. It was a miracle no one else could hear it.

“Well, I’m sure you’ve got your work cut out for you Cro—Antonia.” Aziraphale blushed at her mistake.

Antonia wished she knew just how far down her body the pigment went. 

Aziraphale cleared her throat. “I hear this Tsar leaves a lot to be desired.”

Antonia could just make out the scowl of a scornful aristocrat, her face turned towards them from the crowd, listening.

 _“Aziraphale,”_ Antonia warned.

“And he certainly was unpleasant to deal with, I can tell you.”

“Aziraphale.”

“No eye for art…”

The one aristocrat had friends— multiple. They each glared with a similar passion.

“Would you like to dance with me?”

She blinked, confused by the sudden turn. “With you?”

“Yes with me! Who else?”

She smiled in spite of the outburst, not seeming to notice the emergence of sneering spectators behind them. “Lead the way.”

Perhaps the only thing more awkward than sitting across from someone whose letters you’ve spent the better part of a century over-analyzing is dancing with them. Antonia hadn’t the faintest idea where she should put her hands— she knew where she’d _like_ to put them, but that was another matter entirely.

Aziraphale had asked her to lead the way, and so she did. She interlaced her right hand with Aziraphale’s and placed her left hand on the small of the angel's back. Her hand traced the silken fabric of her sash and it gave her the illusion of something to hold on to. 

The angel pressed herself flush against Antonia’s chest, the plump curves of Azirphale’s waist pressing up against her contrastingly scrawny frame. The ridges of Antonia’s spine irritated her, the way they jutted forward. It made her feel like a skeleton— just the outline of where a person ought to be.

Perhaps Aziraphale’s body could fill the gaps of her.

As the music rose, she tightened her grip on Aziraphale’s waist and spun her into a delicate twirl. The angel’s eyes never left hers for a moment, and Antonia worried about what might happen if she looked away, or blinked. Afraid for the moment to end. Afraid to be back in her cramped little apartment, scribbling away and trying hard not to think. Trying to remember a past other than her own. 

All historians are escapists at heart.

“What are you thinking about?” Aziraphale asked. 

Her face was so close that Antonia could feel her breath on her cheek. Her perfume spelt like roses and chamomile.

“You.” She answered. “Why you haven’t written to me in years.”

A pained expression ghosted across Aziraphale’s face. Antonia dragged her forward in the dance as she felt the angel freeze beneath her hands.

“I didn’t think you had noticed.”

“How could I have not noticed?”

“Your letters,” she began, “they were so glib; so brief. I thought you were disinterested.”

“I'm always glib; and when on earth have I ever been disinterested?”

“That’s true.” She smiled, pressing closer. “So do you speak Russian, then?”

Antonia raised her eyebrows curiously. “Do you?”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t. I’ve tried, don’t you worry, but I can’t seem to manage it.” Aziraphale’s nose was inches from Antonia’s as she tugged on the shoulder of her gown, rubbing the lace between her fingers. “Say something in Russian.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I’m fine, thanks.”

“Oh, come on! I want to hear it.”

“You’ll make fun of me.”

“I would _never.”_

“Oh alright then.” She focused on the chandelier overhead, looking anywhere but her dance partner’s face. „Я вас любил: любовь еще, быть может.“

Aziraphale’s lips formed a bewildered ‘O.' “And what does that mean?”

Antonia shrugged. “It means ‘do ducks have ears?’” 

Unable to stop herself, Aziraphale burst into laughter, attracting the attention of their nearby dancers. “I had forgotten about that joke!”

Antonia smiled. “I haven’t.”

“I should think not, you’ve been using it since Rome!”

“And yet you laugh, every time.”

“I suppose I do, don’t I?”

The music continued, though they did not. Their feet remained rooted to the floor as they swayed in place, collectively forgetting how to breathe. Antonia’s hand still rested on the small of Aziraphale’s back, and her wide face— those blue butterfly eyes— were all she could see. Just that elegant face and a pair of parted lips, pink from dancing. 

She wondered what they would taste like.

“Antonia?” Aziraphale breathed.

“Yes?”

“Do you want to get out of here?”

She nodded fiercely, allowing Aziraphale to lead her through the crowd and onto the balcony overlooking the gardens.

 _Mikhail would be disappointed in her,_ Antonia thought. 

For once, she allowed herself to abandon the past, entranced by the possibility of the more immediate future.

The angel halted at the doorway. “Wait; just one moment.”

She scurried over to a server and returned with two glasses of red wine. She handed one to Antonia, and she accepted, catching Aziraphale’s empty hand in hers.

“That’s an interesting ring.”

She wore the ring on her right hand; a delicate band of polished silver. It twisted to form a snake with diamond scales and a tongue outstretched.

“Thank you,” she said. “It’s all the rage back in France; you know, snakes.”

Antonia dropped her hand. “I see.”

“That first temptation has stirred up quite a fuss in the art world.”

“Uh huh.” She walked farther out onto the balcony, taking in a rather large gulp of wine.

She knew it was too good to be true.

“But it reminds me of you as well,” she whispered, “when I see it.”

Antonia nodded, feeling the whiplash of her own helplessness. 

“To think,” the angel said, moving to stand with Antonia at the edge of the balcony, “that historic moment that we were a part of now decorates the palaces of kings and queens around the world.” 

Antonia nodded, gazing up as she always did at the cosmos wielding overhead. She breathed in the night air and wondered if she had ever had even the slightest idea of where her life might be headed next. For a supernatural being, she felt as hopeless as the mortals who frequent the homes of fortune tellers on their way home from nowhere, paying sum after tidy sum to catch even the faintest glimpse of what was to come. Antonia looked at the sky and did the same, ripping her heart from her chest and tossing it to the stars.

“I suppose we’re both painted across time, you and I,” she smiled. “Though I do like to pick up the brush every now and then. I like to have a say in it all.”

“Hence your role as a historian.”

“Well,” she shrugged. “A historian’s assistant, more like.”

Aziraphale nodded with a muddled expression. “I wasn’t aware they let women study at the Tsarskoye Selo Lyceum.”

“They don’t, not really,” Antonia stared down into her glass. “This is just for tonight, I think.”

“Oh.” She nodded. “I see.”

“Are you disappointed?”

She scoffed. “You’re here, my dear. I can’t be disappointed in that.”

Antonia took another sip, having no earthly idea what to do with _that._

“More women should be historians, I think.”

The angel beamed. “You think so, do you?”

“Absolutely. No one pays us any attention.”

“…which leaves you free to learn everyone else’s secrets?”

“Exactly.” The glass was halfway to Antonia's mouth when she had a revelation. “Ah! Secrets! There’s one I don’t know.”

Retrieving the notebook from her pocket she began scribbling in the margin of an already densely filled page.

Aziraphale frowned. “What are you doing?”

“I keep track of all the words I haven’t learned in Russian yet. Then when I give my notes back to Mikhail, he will teach me the Russian.”

“But I see a lot of English words in there as well,” she observed.

“Yes, well, we share the notebook. He records the Russian words that he doesn’t know in English and then I do the same for him.” She nodded once, tucking the book back into the folds of her dress. “We’re teaching each other.”

“My,” Aziraphale began, timidly, “he seems like quite an interesting person, your boss.”

“Yeah, he’s alright. Probably the only academic I can get on with at that school— the only scholar who never made me feel bad for asking questions. Or, rather, for asking the wrong sorts of questions.”

In academia, you are only as good as the questions you ask. Strangely, so many are paralyzed by their own ignorance that they fail to ask any questions at all.

Aziraphale hummed, placing her empty glass on the stoney ledge. “You should have a graduate degree in question-asking by now, Antonia. For all the questions you’ve asked.”

“You should hear some of the ones I ask myself.” 

Aziraphale nodded like she understood and Antonia wanted nothing more than to surge forward and kiss her. She was an _angel_ — what questions could she possibly have to ask? Still, Aziraphale had always been good at pretending to understand Antonia’s ramblings. Or, perhaps she understood her so well that she didn’t have to pretend.

 _Wow,_ she thought, _how many drinks have I had?_

“So tell me, oh great art con-ay-sour—“

“Connoisseur.”

“Connoisseur, thank you— what great artworks have you acquired since I last saw you?”

Aziraphale’s eyes grew wide as she dove headlong into a story. She recounted tales of locating paintings in France and East Asia, but mostly she spoke of her recent obsession with literature. She gesticulated excitedly as she prattled on about first editions and the merits of Italian parchment paper. Her perfume floated off of her in waves as she carried on, bouncing on her heels with excitement.

Antonia listened as best as she was able, pointedly attempting to ignore Aziraphale’s comment about her upcoming return to France. She made sure to cut in every now and then to contribute what she hoped might be a thoughtful comment. Mostly, she listened to the lilt of Aziraphale’s voice and how it rose as her passions came to the fore. There was no stopping her once she started, she knew. And she didn’t mind. She only wished the room would stop spinning quite so much.

“Oh, I am boring you, aren’t I?”

“What? No!” Antonia stammered. “No, I’m listening, I’m just a bit tired is all.”

Aziraphale shot her a peculiar sideways expression, skeptical. “You’re sure I’m not boring you?”

“Never.”

She heaved a sigh of relief. “I have missed you, you know.”

“And I you.”

Aziraphale hummed, picking absentmindedly at the seam of her bodice. “No one else has ever listened to me like you do.” 

It’s true. Antonia gave Aziraphale’s words a much needed home.

The demon shrugged, tugging at a fallen strand of hair. “I like listening to you; you’re the smartest person I’ve ever met.”

Aziraphale stared back at her, feeling seen and delightfully deceived all at once.

“Would you like to spend the night with me?” The angel asked, her voice miraculously even.

Antonia’s eyebrows shot up so high she imagined it gave her a receding hairline. “I beg your pardon?”

“No! _No._ I just mean that they’ve given me a small room here, while I’m working at the palace, and you said yourself that you're tired, and…and we’ve only just reunited, you see, and I don’t want to let you go. Not just yet.”

“Ok; alright,” said Antonia, in a tone much softer than the hallelujah chorus chanting in her mind.

Aziraphale led Antonia down the hall by her wrist, bypassing guests and guardsmen and intoxicated dinner guests who were in the middle of grossly overstaying their welcome. Antonia’s words proved to be very true indeed— when you’re a woman, no one pays you any mind.

For the moment, that fact was immensely beneficial.

“I’m just here, at the end.”

Antonia barely managed to stifle her giggle as she watched Aziraphale produce an archaic looking key and fumble with the door. Evidently, Antonia wasn’t the only one nearing intoxication.

The interior was anything but the little room Aziraphale had promised. Floor length burgundy curtains kept the moonlight at bay, and the interior was lit with candles and oil lamps scattered across dressers and armoires. The room itself was long and expansive. An archway beyond the elaborately-pillowed king sized bed (which Antonia was passionately ignoring) led into the bathroom, where a clawfoot bathtub contained what appeared to be an inordinate amount of bubbles even for its large size.

Antonia readjusted her glasses. Of all the ways she thought she might die, a clawfoot tub had never factored into the equation.

“Do make yourself at home,” Aziraphale said, her shoes already removed and discarded neatly at the foot of an armoire. 

She reached over her head and began to loosen her hairdo. “Please excuse my manners; I’ve been looking forward to getting out of this ridiculous getup for the past hour. These hairpins are giving me _such_ a headache.”

“Mmrs—yes,” Antonia stammered, transfixed by the sight of the angel _disrobing_ in front of her.

_Where should she look? My, what beautiful curtains…_

As if sensing her distress, Aziraphale transformed her tactics into torture. “Say, would you be a dear and unbutton me?”

The fact that Antonia did not respond with a scream was a miracle.

Azirphale stepped closer, turning around to give Antonia ready access to the buttons of her bodice. She obliged in silence, working her fingers slowly over each button, attempting to train her focus on preserving the fine stitching of the fabric rather than the warm body beneath her hands. She twirled the ribbon languidly around her hand before loosing the final bow, wondering whether the angel’s skin would be as silky and cream-coloured as the ribbons holding her together.

When she finished, Aziraphale tugged the fabric loose and dropped it to the floor. The only clothes that remained on her body was her corset and a thin cotton slip.

Ironic, how Antonia loosed Aziraphale’s strings yet she herself was the one coming undone.

“The corset, too, if you don’t mind.”

The demon nodded, although Aziraphale faced the other way. It was better than releasing the voice trapped in her throat.

She untied the knots at the bottom and began working her way upwards, towards her shoulders. Antonia held her breath as she worked, Aziraphale beginning to relax beneath her hands, free from her restrictive clothing. Antonia’s added height gave her an ample vantage point to watch as Aziraphale’s body swelled back to its normal size. Her breasts sank lower on her chest, no longer hemmed in by the restrictive garment. The curve of her hips became more pronounced and for a moment, Antonia traced a finger over the angel’s side, the alcohol making her brave.

“Mrgh,” she grumbled. “Sorry, lost my balance there.”

“Nothing to worry about,” Aziraphale reassured her, her voice suspiciously steady. “I already feel as though I can breathe fully again.”

Antonia hummed in agreement. _Is it solely because of the corset, or do you always breathe easier when I’m around?_

“There,” she said. “You’re all done.”

“Excellent.” Aziraphale stepped out of the clothing pile around her, and carefully draped her skirts over an empty chair. 

Antonia watched as she finished removing her corset, leaving her clad in only her slip. 

It was all rather unfair.

Antonia swallowed. “I’ll just be sitting over there then.”

She sat down on the edge of the bed, swinging her right foot absentmindedly as she struggled to remember the protocol for when a friend _disrobes_ in front of you. 

_There probably isn’t one,_ she told herself, _so just keep smiling and moving your eyes to other points in the room every few seconds to keep from catching fire._

“Well,” Aziraphale declared, “I’m going to take a bath. Call if you need anything, dear.”

And with that, Aziraphale left the room in the most devastating way.

Antonia stared at the wallpaper (what an intricate design! So fascinating!) and tried very hard not to discorporate as she heard the first splashes of water and an indulgent sigh from the next room. 

The speed of it all had Antonia spinning. Just days ago she was a struggling graduate student, puzzling over difficult Russian grammar rules and taking notes for her class and expecting nothing of anyone. Now, she was sitting in an elaborately decorated room of the royal palace, undressing her best friend and trying very, very hard not to imagine the scene unfolding only a few steps away.

There must be a rule against ogling the oldest friend you’ve ever had as they undress before you but Antonia was a demon, she reminded herself, and rules don’t apply to creatures like her.

She imagined Aziraphale, dragging her palms over the surface of the water; the steam dragging her long braids deeper into the bath. _What if the weight of the water arranged her hair just so, curls strewn across the delicate skin of her back? Would she move them back, or wait for another hand to help her?_

No matter how many Russian verbs she struggled to conjugate in her mind, Antonia couldn’t bring herself to forget the curve of her breasts. _Was the water cold, or warm? Was Aziraphale’s skin as sensitive as it looked when her blush in the ballroom ran lower and lower than necessary? What other delicious sights was the water hiding?_

Antonia laid herself down on the bed, silently slipping a hand beneath her skirts. Sacrificing whatever pride remained to her, she began stroking herself to the sounds of water and Aziraphale's gentle hums as they floated in from the next room. She imagined it was her hands on her now; those soft, delicate fingers she’d held on the dance floor only an hour ago. Already her spine was arching higher off the bed at the mere suggestion of Aziraphale and all her warmth. She told herself that it was the wine mixed with her own loneliness that had her feeling so exposed. That she had been alone too long, that it was only natural to gravitate towards the light when you’ve spent so long in the darkness. But she knew there was so much more to it than that.

Aziraphale had always been able to pull the love from her in the most devastating way. The distance between them kept her caged even now, moaning into her pillow in the glittering guest room, while the source of her boundless affection rested unknowingly in the next room.

Her chains kept her there, as alone as she was so accustomed to being.

She came quickly, with Aziraphale’s name in her mouth. She swallowed it back down along with everything else— every half-thought that she had ever entertained about what it might be like to actually _touch_ her. Her friend who ran from her, first back to Greece, and now, back to France. She ached with the desire to be free enough to love without remorse or regret. To reach out and be touched in turn, no longer alone and self-punishing. 

It brought tears to her eyes— the very notion of being held. 

She allowed the feeling of peace to wash over her for only a brief moment before she sprang from the bed, rooting through her pockets for her brown leather notebook. She turned to a new page and hurriedly began to write. She was so caught up in her own thoughts that she failed to hear the padding of feet behind her.

“What are you doing?”

“Just taking some notes, angel.”

_For the love of all that is [un]holy, do **not** look up from this page._

“My, aren’t you a dedicated historian.”

Antonia shrugged, turning to her. Aziraphale stood leaned against the bedpost with a cream-coloured dressing gown synched at her waist. 

Antonia had never seen Aziraphale in this form before. Angels and demons were not bound by human conceptions of gender (even less to the roles that governed them, thankfully), but even so, Aziraphale rarely deviated. The angel was a creature of habit above all else. It made Antonia want to memorize every inch of her. To commit to memory the curves of her figure, the length of her hair, and the way her plump fingers traced over the edges her manicured nails as she stood there, her nervous habit resurfacing. Even her shapeless dressing gown was enchanting, the way it clung to her still-damp skin from the bath.

A world of sensations sat perched at the end of the bed.

“I thought you would have been asleep by now,” she commented, peeling back the sheets to take a seat on the right side of the bed.

(Antonia’s heart was now _entirely_ in her throat.)

She laid down on the opposite side, the notebook splayed across her chest, forgotten. “Can’t just turn it on and off like a tap, angel. You have to get tired first.”

“So you’re not tired, then?”

As if she would ever be able to sleep again after what she’d seen tonight. 

She placed her notebook face-down on the bedside table. “Nope.”

“Hmm. Well you could always take a bath, if you think that might help. I could miracle you one, if you’d like.”

This had to be, hands down, the _strangest_ night of Antonia’s entire life. 

“Ngk, if you want to, Angel.”

Aziraphale nodded, snapping her fingers once before retreating under the blankets with a hardcover book that Antonia could have sworn wasn’t there a moment ago.

“Right. I’ll…just be a moment then.”

“Take your time,” Aziraphale told her, turning the pages of her book unusually fast.

Curiosity was, typically speaking, Antonia’s area. Aziraphale was out of practice with it and, therefore, failed to manage it well. The moment that Antonia entered the bathroom and (tragically) closed the partition, Aziraphale leaned across the bed, retrieving her notebook.

In any other moment, Aziraphale would have acted differently— would have shown restraint. But this, she told herself, was different. Antonia had looked at her all night with an expression of kindness and warmth and _hope._ All Aziraphale wanted to do was pinch herself to prove that the evening was not imagined. That everything was finally, after so many centuries, working out in her favour. That perhaps her years spent writing letters and daydreaming whenever she forgot herself were not for nothing. 

She wanted so desperately to be a part of Antonia’s thoughtful, creative world, but first, she had to prove to herself that there was a place for her in it.

Gingerly, she took the book in her hands and scanned the most recent entry.

Я вас любил: любовь еще, быть может,  
В душе моей угасла не совсем;  
Но пусть она вас больше не тревожит;  
Я не хочу печалить вас ничем.

It looked like a poem. Aziraphale’s knowledge of Russian was incredibly base— some tutors (or, more realistically, _many_ tutors) would have even deemed it tragic. But he did recognize one word: любил, and its noun form: люблю— love.

Antonia was writing a love poem. To _whom?_

She turned to the inside cover, where a small inscription lay in indelible black ink:

Property of // Собственность

Mikhail Nikolaev  
And  
Antony Crowley

The angel’s worst fears were confirmed. Antonia was in love. Enough to write love poems, in fact. In a book that she shared with another man.

And Aziraphale understood why she loved him, this mysterious historian whom she had never met. Their cleverness, their shared passion for history…Mikhail seemed to embody the best parts of Antonia. 

He was a very lucky man indeed.

“Hey, Aziraphale?” Antonia called, “what did you do with the shampoo?”

But it was too late. The angel had already left, gown and all.

Antonia emerged from the bathroom to find an empty room and the journal, now closed, on the table where she’d left it.

Translation:

Я вас любил: любовь еще, быть может, (I loved you, and I probably still do,)  
В душе моей угасла не совсем; (And for a while the feeling may remain…)  
Но пусть она вас больше не тревожит; (But let my love no longer trouble you,)  
Я не хочу печалить вас ничем. (I do not wish to cause you any pain.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, credit to Alexander Pushkin for the lovely poem that I am appropriating for Crowley. (Sorry dude; big fan of yours nevertheless…)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter! It's taken longer for me to write because I _really_ wanted to get the Russia chapter right, and do justice to the ideas I had in my mind. 
> 
> Let me just say...the smut levels were surprising even to me. It's been a tough week and I decided that smut is the answer. I don't see the situation getting any better, either. I'm sorry (but also, I'm not ;) )


	5. Don't Ever Stop

If Crowley was the historian between them, then Aziraphale was the photographer. He catalogued moments as they passed him by, locking the images into his mind to return to later, a very different kind of time-travel. He remembers the exact shade of sunlight that fell over the Piraeus at dawn as he set out for Athens; rosy-fingered and languid. If he closes his eyes he can still go back there, even now, to the days he drank unmixed wine in the sunlight as he read much and did very little. 

But this skill can work against him, too. Time travel ages the soul as you live the minutes once, twice, a thousand times. Life is to be lived in a straight line and every turn-around and double-back has a cost. It tires the mind as it creates its mental catalogue of every delight and every sharp comment and verbal strike. 

Sometimes they play on repeat in a gruesome lullaby.

Angels aren’t supposed to do that— obsess. They’re the celestial figures called upon by mortals when their minds get ahead of them, just beyond their grasp. They’re meant to calm, to assuage, and to put to right. Aziraphale doesn’t know if he’s ever been right, truly. He knows there have been moments when he’s come close. That morning when he first read Dante with tea in his hand and a scarf around his shoulders had felt nearly perfect. Then there was the day and night that he and Crowley spent talking and waiting for something to happen. The weather had been just right— perfect growing conditions. 

They made up for a lot, these near-misses. He used them to guard against the darkness in him. When his mind turned to the Sistine Chapel and the figures within, all halos and glittering perfection, he used these fleeting images to fill the gaps in his spirit. _Had any of those frescoed-faces ever read Homer? Hemingway? Did they have any idea how the beings beneath them felt during a frost, or a tragedy? How it felt to feel anything less than whole?_

He didn’t think so.

That golden, gleaming sort of happiness is known only to those whom suffering cannot touch.

Perhaps this is why Gabriel’s visits were so infuriating. Gabriel, with his elegant features and finely-tailored clothes, who puzzled over Aziraphale’s quirks with a kind of absent-minded interest that was anything but kind. He was, for Aziraphale, the Cystine Chapel personified. And artwork cannot be befriended, only judged from a distant plain.

“Excellent work, Aziraphale; as always.” 

The man’s plastic smile made Aziraphale’s stomach turn. “Thank you very much.”

Gabriel nodded once, taking a step towards the door. He stopped suddenly at the adjacent bookcase, tracing a finger over a red spine; _Farewell to Arms._

“I’ve heard of this one!” He declared, proudly.

“Oh, yes!” Aziraphale’s smile widened even as he warned himself, _‘do not get too excited; do not tell him any more than he needs to know.’_

But Aziraphale seldom took advice, particularly from himself. “It’s actually a rather interesting edition. You see, of the first editions, 510 copies were actually numbered and signed by Hemmingway. Getting my hands on this one was quite a challenge, I can assure you.”

What he didn’t say was: and it wouldn’t be sitting in my shop right now if not for the cooperation of a considerate demon.

Gabriel straightened his tie, eyes already on the door. “Uh-huh.”

 _Had it always been this way?_ They were both angels, after all. There must have been a time when conferring with Gabriel did not make Aziraphale’s jaw clench, feeling inferior and judged with every shrug and disinterested expression. He attributed the unpleasantness to the gaping separation that exists between earth and Heaven. Perhaps it is easier to feel complete when completeness surrounds you everyday, but it was different down here, on earth. It was easier to get lost, easier to find yourself in books than in principles or other people.

But it still broke his heart just a little, to see the epitome of who he was supposed to be scowling at his passion as he strode out the door.

Here’s the thing: A mortal existence is hard. The only way to inoculate yourself against the apathy of the world is to love unconditionally. And for Aziraphale, this took the form of an ever-expanding library. He lived for the books within and the joy he derived from them. He loved them despite the fact that they would never love him back or go too fast or ask for more than he was equipped to give. (Books will never tell you that you aren’t good enough). Or perhaps he loved books because of _these_ things. The bookshop was a safe place to lay his love at the end of the night, locked behind a concealing door.

It made Gabriel’s disdain all the more personal. _“What am I supposed to do,”_ he wanted to yell, “love something dangerous? Like a _person?”_

He sighed. Even in his love, Aziraphale was a failure.

Meanwhile, the only reason that Crowley’s kitchen floor hadn’t worn through and sent him plummeting down into the bowels of the earth was his own disbelief in such a scenario. By normal standards, that floor had endured a _copious_ amount of pacing.

He’d spent the day after their revelatory lunch pacing the apartment, chastising himself as he realized that he still wore Aziraphale’s scarf synched around his throat. Slowly, he unfurled it from his neck, breathing in the scent of old books and ginger tea. He hung it on the coatrack by the door only to pull it back down again. If it was placed at the door when Aziraphale arrived, he might ask for it back, you see. He hesitated for barely a moment before making his way to the bedroom and tucking it into the drawer of his bedside table. No way the angel would find it here.

He sighed. He was in deep. Deeper than he had been in centuries.

Aziraphale’s reference to Russia sat beside him on the couch as he brooded. It pressed on his brain, giving him a headache he couldn’t quite shake. _Could it be true, that all this time he had been blaming himself for Egypt, Aziraphale had been fixated on Russia?_ It was hard to imagine. Finding Aziraphale gone from the room— which was almost _their_ room— had been painful, but not unexpected. They were always doing that to one another, it seemed. One step closer and two steps back.

Crowley forgave him for it, he really did. _What was a demon to an angel?_

It had been his fault, really, for expecting him to stay at all.

But yesterday had been different. Yesterday, they were just two people speaking honestly, for once. And he liked the way the angel’s lips had parted for him, implicitly, as if they were made to meet him in the middle. Crowley knew he would do anything to repeat it. To taste those lips again, pull them open, hand intwined in crisp blond hair…

He may have been fantasizing a bit. 

And now Aziraphale was coming to his house. He hadn’t even given him the address, but still Aziraphale had promised to come. He could miracle himself here, if worse came to worse. 

This was new territory for them; through the centuries, it had always been the other way around. Aziraphale was the one to invite Crowley into his space, his world. He was the honey left out in the heat, drawing Crowley like a fly to his sweetness. He had chased that man across history, and now he was the bait; a sitting duck. 

It felt good, to be worth traveling for. It almost made up for the hell-bent pace of his heart as the hours ticked by. 

He looked in the mirror, running a hand through his brushed (but somehow still disheveled) hair. It was hopeless, really. At least his shirt was clean. There wasn’t much to do about it now— all his shirts, no matter how nice, were black. He looked tidy, if nothing else.

The knock at the door almost made him scream. 

_Why would he feel the need to knock? My door is always unlocked…_

He opened the door swiftly, the hinges screeching beneath the wood. 

“Aziraphale,” he said, dumbly. _What was he supposed to do with his hands?_

“Hello, my dear.” 

The word “awkward” is, in some cases, utterly useless. It did not begin to crack the surface of their stifled greeting. The German _Ungeschicktheit_ came close. The word sounded like a pan being thrown down a flight of stairs— roughly the same clanging noise echoing in Crowley’s mind even now. Still, even the onomatopoeic German term seemed to fall short of the mark.

It felt like they were inventing a new language, really. The language of fearful love.

“Uh, please come in,” Crowley stuttered, feeling altogether fake and non-serious.

In his defence, there is no instruction manual for how to greet the almost-lover who has vexed you since the dawn of time.

Aziraphale brushed past him, pausing only to hang his overcoat on the rack. Crowley’s apartment was new territory for him. His eyes coursed over the room easily, inspecting the small couch and the adjacent broad-backed chair, the mahogany coffee table holding nothing, and the single bottle of champagne left rather presumptively on the counter. 

Around them, the walls were still bare. Crowley had found the place when he first arrived in London, the previous owner having sold it before he was deployed to the Pacific. The house still belonged to its previous tenant, containing little more than a few functional furniture pieces and not a single photograph to identify its new owner. Crowley wondered idly if the man was still alive. He hoped so.

“It’s a nice home you have, here.” Aziraphale said, turning about at the centre of the room.

Crowley shrugged. “You can be honest, angel. I know it’s not much.”

“I’m sure you’ll do nice things with it, in time.”

‘In time I hope to have a more _permanent_ home,’ he wanted to say. But all he said was: “Maybe.”

Aziraphale fiddled with his hands, distraught. His smile was tugging down at the edges as he looked at the blank walls around him. Nothing like the light expression he wore at the Ritz, and the bookshop when he…

“Are you alright, angel?”

“Oh, just a long day, is all.” He took a step forward, his hands falling to his sides as he approached Crowley with a softened expression. “Better, now that I can see you.”

Crowley stared back, helplessly. He couldn’t speak when Aziraphale said things like that. He couldn’t move, he could hardly breathe. Instead he waited, watching.

Aziraphale stopped in front of him and placed a gentle hand on Crowley’s waist. He thumbed over Crowley’s hip bone, tracing the edge of it as he watched the motion in the dim lighting of the hall. 

“Is this alright?” He asked.

Distrusting his own voice, Crowley nodded. His face was inches away from Aziraphale’s. He watched as the man’s eyes darted from Crowley’s glasses to his lips and back again. It was all he could do to lean forward, just a bit, pulled into the angel’s orbit.

Aziraphale dragged his nose over Crowley’s cheek, surprising him. Crowley smiled in spite of himself and that’s when Aziraphale kissed him, his hand still stroking gently over Crowley’s hipbone. 

Meanwhile, Crowley’s brain had disconnected entirely. Reason eluded him as he leaned closer, his hands finding traction in Aziraphale’s curls, grounding him to reality. If he held on tightly, perhaps this time the angel would stay. Perhaps this would be the time that made up for all the others. 

_Please,_ he wanted to say, _please, please continue to be forgetful. Continue to leave your scarf in my life. Keep coming back to get it (and me) and everything else. You can have it all. Nothing I own has ever been mine alone._

Feeling Crowley’s muscles tighten beneath him, Aziraphale pulled away, breaking the kiss. Crowley’s glasses were fogged up and crooked, a gorgeous blush colouring his nose and cheeks in a delicate pink. Up close, Aziraphale could see the freckles he once had in Egypt, now faded but still there. Constellations of a past life, decorating his face. Aziraphale found him beautiful and devastating all at once.

“Hi,” the demon said, his hand still on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

The angel beamed. “Hello.”

“So…” the demon began, clearing his throat. “Alcohol?”

“Oh Lord, yes.”

“Wait wait wait…” The demon waved a hand abortively in front of his chest, chasing the thought as it floated away in front of him. “So _you_ had an affair with Oscar Wilde?”

Aziraphale sighed in frustration, his brow assuming its irritated position. “Yes, I’ve told you this.”

“Mmm but I didn’t believe you the first time.” He slumped back on the couch, his feet dangling idly over the armrest closest to Aziraphale. “Fucking Oscar Wilde.”

Aziraphale took another sip of champagne. “Yes, I did, but that’s hardly the whole story.”

Crowley made no effort to retrieve his jaw from the floor.

“And is the profanity really necessary, dear?”  


“You’re goddamned right it is, angel.”

 _“Alright,”_ Aziraphale scolded, fighting the smile from his lips, “enough of that.” 

“Fine,” Crowley conceded, sitting straighter on the sofa. “But we’re going to circle back to it, yeah?”

“If you insist.” He sneered.

“Oh I…certainly do. And I will.”

He tried (and failed) to conceal his laughter. “Alright, Crowley.”

The demon abandoned his glass on the table, looking just a touch more sober than he had a moment ago. His skin was flushed and Aziraphale wanted to taste it.

“Now are you ready to tell me why you looked so forlorn when you arrived here tonight?”

The angel turned away. “You noticed that, did you?”

“You know me, Aziraphale. I notice everything.”

Aziraphale was beginning to believe that was true. 

“Fine. I’ll tell you.” He set his champagne flute down on the coffee table, grateful that he felt capable of having this discussion without sobering up. It felt somewhat necessary; a touch of intoxication, fuzzy corners.

“But it’s really not so important.”

“‘Doubt that.”

He sighed. “Well…you see, I had a visit from Gabriel today…”

“Wanker.”

“Yes, thank you.” He gave his shoulders a proper wiggle, making Crowley smile. “I do believe I heard you the first time. Anyway…he was his usual precocious self. All business and little smalltalk; he still managed to insult my books on his way out.”

Crowley wrinkled his nose. “So? What do you care?”

“I didn’t think I did, really. But it turns out that I had some hope, going into it.”

“What were you hoping for?”

Oh, the usual. _Everything._

“I hoped that this time it would be different, I suppose. That we’d talk, and it would be pleasant, and I wouldn’t feel judged by his words or his demeanour or the tone with which he speaks to me.” The angel began toying with his hands, his eyes still downcast. “Truth is, I think I’ve always hoped that I might be worthy of it all. Every interaction I have with Heaven, I always remind myself to keep my expectations low, and every time I hope just the same.”

He glanced over at Crowley. His glasses obscured his eyes from view, but the softness of his forehead was unmistakeable. He looked softened at the edges, his mouth caught between words.

“Hope is kind of your domain though, isn’t it? I mean, as an angel?”

“Well, technically, but…”

“Then you’re doing your job. What good is an angel without hope, anyway?” He smirked, realization crossing his face. “Me. That’s what an angel without hope is; a demon.”

“That is a very circuitous path to take in order to make me feel better.”

“And?”

“What?”

“Do you feel better?”

He considered it a moment. “I know what you can do to cheer me up.”

“What’s that, angel?”

“Come over here, for a start.”

Crowley rose silently, coming to stand at the edge of Aziraphale’s chair. The angel took his hand, swiping his thumb across the back of it before bringing it up to his lips. He kissed the palm of Crowley’s hand before tugging the demon into his lap. 

At first, Crowley simply stared down at the man before him. He coursed his eyes over the freckles around his eyes, the slight perk of his nose, and those lips, slightly parted. He placed his hands on the angel’s shoulders for balance and felt him gasp slightly at the contact. _Was he imagining it, or was it really Crowley that made his eyes turn so soft and glassy?_

And Aziraphale stared back. He reached a hand to Crowley’s face before retreating, still hesitant.

“Is it alright if I take these off, my darling?”

Some items— a pair of glasses, a black leather jacket— are like shields. The battlefields have changed over the years but the challenges remain. Spartan warriors fight differently, now. Crowley was a soldier, standing before his sworn enemy, who asked him to surrender his shield.

“Uh…” Crowley was still hung up on _darling._ “Yeah, ‘course.”

He let his enemy take them. (He’d already taken everything else.)

“Thank you.”

And Aziraphale _was_ grateful. Even in the low light of the living room, Crowley’s eyes shone like candles in the night. Their amber glow made his hair appear all the more rich, a charged shade of red. And my, they were _expressive._ Aziraphale wanted to study them; to see what they looked like when Crowley was happy or flirtatious or aroused. _How many expressions could he pull from them, if he tried?_

“Look at you,” he whispered, trailing his hand over Crowley’s waist. “Marvellous.”

Crowley averted his gaze, pulled between retrieving the glasses from the table and moving closer to Aziraphale. He chose the latter. 

“Is it alright if I…?”

“I told you, angel,” he breathed, cupping Aziraphale’s face in his hands, “you don’t have to ask it.”

The angel’s lips were on his in an instant. Sweet and tentative at first, but not nearly enough. Crowley’s hands threaded through the angel’s hair, pulling him closer. But Aziraphale was the one with gravitational pull, dragging Crowley into his current, his orbit. The demon pulled back and surged forward, searching for a place to crash into. He deepened the kiss, thrilled by the taste of tea and chocolate and _Aziraphale._ He swiped a hand over Aziraphale’s ear, making him giggle even with his tongue in Crowley’s mouth. Crowley was incapacitated with the joy of it. He wanted to hear that giggle again and again, holding in his mouth the vibration of laughter that wasn’t his.

 _I can make you happy,_ he pleaded with his lips, _if you let me. Please, please let me._

Aziraphale’s hands traced a lingering trail down Crowley’s back, exploring the angles of his shoulder blades, the delicate dip of his waist. He slipped his hands into the uncharted territory that was the skin beneath Crowley’s black dress shirt. Every step from here on out was an adventure— an _invention._ None of this had ever happened before but he kissed the demon as though it never would again. As Crowley parted his lips he placed his hand on the thin waist of his pants, his thumb rubbing circles into Crowley’s lower back as he allowed his lips to be parted once more by Crowley’s insistent tongue. He stopped his ministrations only to bite down gently on Crowley’s lower lip, teasing him.

Aziraphale stopped breathing entirely as the demon whimpered beneath his lips. That helpless, choked sound settled somewhere deep in Aziraphale’s belly, and he wanted desperately to chase it. To press harder and further until Crowley was only that sound, just a moan and a pair of eyes, watching and going dark with pleasure. He wanted him untethered; unmoored. If he touched him in just the right place, Crowley might give in. Surrender. He might forget his own name with the lightness of it. He might even forget the past they shared, the one with all the prickles of agonizing want and petty retreats. Aziraphale ached for the historian to forget the past and all its tragic missteps and near-misses. Then, they could construct a new history in their current image. The one where Crowley writhed in his hands as they spoke with the same language— talking in tongues. 

He was about to kiss him again when Crowley leaned forward, grinding down onto Aziraphale’s already burgeoning erection. The pressure spent sparks to Aziraphale’s brain, his wistful meditations forgotten.

“I’m sorry,” the demon breathed, whispering the words into Aziraphale’s neck. “Got carried away, there.”

His voice sounded like waves breaking. _Carried out to sea._

He raised a hand to Crowley’s neck, stroking his soft skin at his nape as the demon hid his face from view. “You have nothing to apologize for, dear.”

The demon shifted to look at him, his face eye-level with Aziraphale’s. 

“I like the sounds you make for me,” Aziraphale said, tracing a hand over the collarbones he’d been obsessing over since who-knows-when BCE.

Crowley squirmed uncomfortably, looking away. “ _Aziraphale,_ you cannot just go around saying things like that.”

He smiled. “Why ever not?”

“Because I’ll discorporate.”

He placed a gentle kiss to the tip of Crowley’s nose. “That would be terribly inconvenient.”

Crowley sighed. “You’re telling me.”

Aziraphale’s hand fell from Crowley’s hair and the demon chased it, plucking it from the armrest and entwining their fingers together. Even as he did this, Crowley looked small; hesitant. Something about his eyes looked uneasy, even as he chased Aziraphale’s body when it left him. It was as though he needed the warmth.

“I’ll tell you what,” he began, “how about we get some sleep? We can always resume our… _festivities_ at a later time.”

Crowley’s laugh turned into a snort. “Come on, angel. I know you don’t sleep.”

“But you do. And I can adjust. Besides, I can always read a book or two while you get some rest.”

Crowley smiled slightly, the heaviness of his tired limbs growing more pronounced at the mere mention of sleep. “And you just happen to have brought a book with you, huh?”

“As a matter of fact, I do believe I have some soft covers in my coat pockets. You never know when one might need a bit of light reading.”

“Alright,” he agreed, leaning in for one more kiss; “just give me a moment to change.”

He disappeared into the bedroom and returned quickly, having changed into a pair of black silk pyjamas. The detail made Aziraphale smile. He silently added it to the growing list of things he knew about Crowley which he stowed safely in the back of his mind. Now he knew what he wore to bed. Perhaps one day he would learn what it felt like to strip him of it in the morning.

“You got a book picked out?” He asked, standing over where Aziraphale lay sprawled atop the couch.

The angel waved the opened book before him. “Indeed. A lovely old book I’ve been meaning to get to on the topic of Roman roads.”

He wrinkled his nose, allowing Aziraphale to guide him over to the couch as he laid down on top of him. His hair, disheveled from hands and inquisitive fingers, tickled Aziraphale’s nose as he laid his head on the angel’s chest.

“Sounds riveting.”

“Doesn’t it just?”

The book rested patiently on the coffee table, discarded as they breathed each other in. Aziraphale’s hands were splayed across Crowley’s back and the demon had a hand on Aziraphale’s chest that he hoped he would never have to move.

“Do you want to read it to me?” He asked.

Aziraphale hummed in surprise. “A book about Roman roads? At this hour? I doubt it would be to your liking.”

Crowley shrugged. “I just like hearing your voice, that’s all.”

Aziraphale considered it for scarcely a moment before reaching for the book. “Well alright then.”

He read in a hushed voice for nearly an hour, Crowley interrupting now and then with questions and snide comments. He remembers the ancient roads well; how lost he would become. 

He focused on Aziraphale’s voice, feeling the rise and fall of his chest beneath him with every word, every breath. The contact of heat against his skin made him a special kind of drunk. Like he had been given a gift he had never had the courage to ask for— a safe place to land. The anxiety that lived inside his own chest cavity was, for the moment, at bay. Aziraphale’s words soothed the erratic parts of him, and the hand on his back held him there, secure. It made his eyes heavy with the warmth of it all.

“‘Ziraphale?” He asked.

“What is it, dearest?”

He buried his face in Aziraphale’s chest, nuzzling into his open collar. “I like it when you read to me.”

The arm around Crowley clung a little tighter. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“Don’t ever stop.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading! This fluffy chapter is dedicated to anyone who has ever felt judged for the things that they enjoy. It is always better to exercise your own love than to move through life without it. Apathy will never touch us. <3


	6. A Lot Like Remembering

Crowley turns in his sleep. More than that, he fights. Pillows thrown to the floor, sheets tangled around a wandering foot in the night. More than once he’s woken up on the floor, uncertain of when he got there or how he managed to do so without waking. It’s been somewhat of a sore spot for him over the years. He doesn’t mind the thrashing (he has energy to spare) but he always resented the idea that, if he were ever lucky enough to sleep next to a person, that he might hurt them and they would leave. A side effect, he supposed, of being loved by him. His emotions were not a part of him so much as they dangled precariously from the sharp edges of his bones, little knives of feeling, always threatening to either impale him or plummet, crashing into someone else.

Pushing people away even in sleep— it was as though his subconscious recognized his singularity. Like him, it knew that he was meant to be alone.

The fact that he awoke alone on his couch was therefore unsurprising. He was a deep sleeper. Aziraphale could easily manoeuvre him (in more ways than one) and slip away when things got difficult. He really shouldn’t have been surprised.

But he was.

It felt _right,_ the way Aziraphale had cradled Crowley’s head in his hand as he read, the words vibrating through his chest. It felt permanent, even. Like this new, unaccustomed gentleness was the way forward. The thing they had waited for since Eden finally coming for them both. Something was emerging between them. Each of them possessed a recognition of the other that existed nowhere else on earth. Every word Aziraphale read sounded like _‘hello,’_ and every answering nuzzle or sigh from Crowley was his answer. _‘Nice to meet you.’_

And yet, Crowley was still alone.

He scanned the room heartlessly, tears clouding his view. How could he have been so naive? Of course the angel wouldn’t stay. He was an _angel._ And angels only come when you’re desperate.

He threw back the blanket, dragging himself from the sofa. He was fairly certain that the tasseled thing didn’t belong to him. Either it was a forgotten possession of his home’s previous owner, or the angel had miracled it here. Yes, that’s it. Aziraphale had felt guilty about leaving him like this, and so he’d conjured up a consolation prize. Something to keep the demon warm in his absence, while he attended to things that actually matter.

He sighed. It was too early for his disaster-politics.

Crowley forced his legs to work beneath him and began making his way to the kitchen. Already he was pondering the evidence of the night before, wondering how it might look after a morning, a month, a year of revisionist history. Paradoxically, he wanted to go back to sleep but did not want to be still.

The kitchen, on the other hand, was full of movement.

A miraculous sight: Aziraphale stood over the stove, humming as he waited to flip the eggs, a plate of waffles waiting beside him. His barefoot tapped impatiently against the tile as he worked. Domesticity coloured everything.

He jumped when he saw Crowley. “Oh, good morning, my dear. I didn’t hear you get up.”

He quickly transferred the eggs to the waffle plate and slid them across the island. It was like a scene from a movie. Crowley was the traveller, just passing through, and Aziraphale worked the spatula like it was his life.

“Is everything alright?”

Crowley laughed; it sounded sideways and frantic. _Of course it isn’t,_ he thought. _You left. You left but you didn’t leave and you assumed I’d be wise enough to know the difference. As if I’m not more familiar with your absence than your presence or your voice._

“I…I thought you left.” He choked. “I thought you’d left me again.”

Hands clenched into fists as he willed himself to silence. He wished he had his glasses or a wall or a continent to put between them; to hide behind. Because this was too revealing. He would scare him off again, with the gaps of his soul.

“Oh, my _dear._ ” 

Aziraphale approached him slowly, hands out in front where Crowley could see them, as if he were a wild animal in need of taming. And it was probably true. He was uncivilized, like this. Just emotions and ferocity with no room for anything else. The angel wrapped his arms around Crowley and the demon felt himself crack, just a little.

His tears stained the shoulder of Aziraphale’s dress shirt and although he could not force himself to stop he hated the tragic dampness of it. He was always too much, always spilling over and blotting out. Aziraphale hugged him closely as he shook but all he could do was think about the time he’d bitten through his tongue and blood had covered everything and he tasted it now, too, the taste of blood and the knowledge that it stained. He didn’t want to stain Aziraphale, but that’s what he was, a blot on an otherwise perfect record, a stain that could be covered but never removed…

“I’m right here, Crowley, it’s alright.”

People are forgiven for their sins. Humans get it all the time, whether or not they deserve it. Repent your sins and be reborn! Drop your shame at the door when you leave. Say some Hail Marys and forget what it felt like when your name was a burden. Back in the day, indulgences led to absolution. The wealthy can always be forgiven. But Crowley had nothing. He was nothing. Just a stain on the stole of a misguided priest, willing to forgive the unforgivable.

_Unforgivable, that’s what I am._

“I’m so sorry, Crowley. I never should have left you there in St. Petersburg. I never should have let you leave _Egypt.”_ His tone was shaky, but determined. “To be honest, I don’t think we ever should have left Eden.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered.”

The grip around him tightened. “Why-ever would you say something like that? It matters a great deal.”

Crowley sniffed, rising for a moment from Aziraphale’s neck. “You’re an angel, Aziraphale. No matter where we are— or _when_ — we find each-other, you have a life to return to. A purpose. We need to find gardens to exist in, together, because real-life isn’t meant for…this.”

His meaning was clear: It isn’t meant for me.

 _“Crowley.”_ Aziraphale placed a hand on his cheek, swiping away at his tears. The slits of his eyes were worn thin, exhausted by their own fire.

He took a deep breath. “Crowley, I am so, so sorry.”

“It’s nothing, angel.” He cleared his throat, doing his best impression of nonchalance. “I should have known I’d find you in the kitchen.”

“No, not just for that.” He pulled back, rising on the tips of his toes to plant a gentle kiss to Crowley’s forehead. “I’m sorry that I let you believe…”

His eyes were full and heavy and Crowley wanted to change them. To return them to clarity and optimism. His mouth opened and closed, the words bubbling beneath the surface.

“Yes?”

“Just that… every day that you exist without knowing my complete adoration of you is due to my own personal failing. I can only say that I’m sorry, Crowley. And I’m here now, for what it’s worth.”

His words were a life-raft, tossed into the sea. Crowley grabbed onto them, nodding, and forced himself to breathe. He sniffed passed the lump in his throat. “Well it sure took you long enough.”

The angel beamed, eyes still damp and searching. He loosened his grip. “Welcome back, my dear.”

Tugging lightly on Crowley’s hand, he guided him towards the kitchen table. “I’ve made breakfast for you. Well, for us, really, but mostly for you.”

“Thanks, angel.”

The food was good, it really was. Crowley stabbed halfheartedly at his eggs for Aziraphale’s benefit, occasionally biting down and forcing himself to swallow. As much as he’d appreciated the gesture, Crowley had already died twice since waking, and he’d never been one for stress-eating. Quite the other way around, in fact.

It broke Aziraphale’s heart to watch Crowley nod and grin as if he hadn’t been a mess of tears only moments prior. The angel shifted their conversation to safer waters— the weather, how Crowley takes his coffee, and whether or not he’d had any plans for today (he didn’t). Crowley seemed to appreciate the distraction, which Aziraphale took more painfully than he would have if the demon had fought him at every turn. Crowley deserved to take up space. To yell and scream and cry when it suited him, not to reduce himself to a passive package for easy consumption. They’d both been holding back the tide for years; it was time to break the pattern.

“So,” Aziraphale began, wiping his mouth on his handkerchief, “I think it is high time we apologized to one another, wouldn’t you agree?”

Crowley squirmed in his seat, eyes leaping to the open window. “’s fine. It’s been a long time.”

“My dear, you more than anyone should understand that history doesn’t end. Not completely.”

He sighed. “I know. I just…”

Aziraphale nodded encouragingly.

“I just feel like…it’s in the past, innit? And we should be able to be happy now without dwelling too much on it.”

“I agree.” He reached for Crowley’s hand, entwining it with his. “But I think the only way we can continue on is by facing one another honestly, and by being honest with ourselves.”

Crowley nodded. He didn’t like it, but he understood. No more missteps.

“I’ll start,” said Aziraphale, clearing his throat. “I’m so sorry that I left you in St. Petersburg. You must know that that night has haunted me ever since.”

“It has?”

“Of course.” He forced a smile, shocked by the gentleness of his own voice. “Say, do you remember that exhibition at the Louvre a couple years back? The one about fashion in the 18th century?”

“Sure, but why…”

“I wanted to go, I really did. I packed a suitcase and set off for Paris— I made it there in time for the opening, no less. But I couldn’t go in.”

“Why not?”

A wistful expression crossed his face. “Because they had a crimson dress there, at the entrance to the exhibit. It wasn’t quite the same as yours— it had a larger train, less delicate— but still, it was enough. All I could see was you with your long hair and beautiful smile, smiling back at me.”

Crowley blushed, pushing eggs around his plate with a murky expression.

“I took the train back to Calais that night. Couldn’t bear to be there another moment. Especially since the only person I wanted to talk to had gone away.”

He wrinkled his nose, finally turning to face Aziraphale. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

The angel nodded. “I know.”

“And I’m sorry for Egypt, too. I don’t know why I left, really. I was happy there. With you.”

The angel beamed in response, forcing Crowley to look away. All of those heartfelt smiles seemed to be impaling him. “But then it all seemed impossible and…I don’t know. I just couldn’t take it anymore.”

Aziraphale’s face crumbled at his words. “You couldn’t take…being at the villa? With me?”

“No!” He shook his head vehemently, giving his hand a squeeze. “No, not with you. With…myself, I guess.”

“Yourself?”

Crowley sighed. He had endured the oppressive nature of his own mind for years. How could he hope to put it into words for someone else? He couldn’t. If Aziraphale knew the truth about him— the depths of his unworthiness— he would run for the hills.

But Aziraphale deserved the truth. Even if he would hate it, and Crowley, he still deserved to know. He took a deep breath, girding himself. “I’m…contaminated, Aziraphale.”

“I don’t understand.”

Yes, that’s the problem.

“Come on, you must have sensed it by now. I’m a demon, yeah? I’m not like you.”

His brow furrowed in confusion. “Obviously, but what…”

“Come off it, angel! It means I’m not like you! I’m not good or bright or beautiful. I’m not _anything_ by nature; everything I know I had to work at. I—”

“Stop it.”

“It’s true! It’s true and you know it.”

“I most certainly do not.”

“You do! You’ve said it yourself, we’re on opposite sides.”

“Yes!” He cried, his hands covering Crowley’s. “Sides defined by other people, not us!”

“But look at you, Aziraphale! You’re _ethereal_ …”

“So are you! You designed the stars.”

“Yes, and they destroyed me for it!” His free hand slammed onto the table, scattering a flurry of scrambled eggs onto the front of his pyjamas. He stared helplessly as Aziraphale retrieved a cloth from the kitchen and began to wash the table. The world was turning too fast for him. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.” The angel was avoiding his eyes now, dusting the front of the demon’s shirt with a businesslike expression. “Just don’t.”

He waited until the angel was finished and had reassumed his position at the table with a forlorn expression before continuing. “I destroy things, Aziraphale. I’m doing it right now and I can’t even stop it.”

“You aren’t destroying me, Crowley. Not as long as you stay with me.” He reached for the demon’s hand again, and was only slightly relieved when he took it. “Pain, my dear, is inevitable. But you must know that I would consider it a privilege to be hurt by you. And if you care for me at all, then you must allow me that chance. You must allow me to experience you. _All_ of you.”

Crowley shook his head, his eyes flooding once more. “But what if you fall?”

“Then we’ll have one more thing in common, you and I.”

A choked laugh escaped Crowley’s lips and Aziraphale latched onto it, laughing in spite of himself. “I know what I’d like to do today.”

“What’s that, angel?”

Aziraphale shrugged, swiping a thumb over the back of Crowley’s hand. “I’d like to dedicate today to you.”

The demon squirmed. “What does that mean?”

“It means that we will do whatever you’d like. Whatever you think would make you happy.” His eyes met Crowley’s with a seriousness the demon had never seen before. All hesitation abandoned. “I can take care of you, if you’d let me.”

Crowley simply nodded, unable to do much else. He pushed his chair out from under the table, facing the angel head-on.

“Lovely,” he said, letting go of Crowley’s hand at last. “Now, what would you like me to do?”

“Just touch me.”

And he did.

Crowley rose to his feet and Aziraphale tugged him into his arms. He stroked his hair as Crowley latched onto him, a death grip around his shoulders. 

Aziraphale began with his hair. He tugged it back with his hand, laying kisses along his jawbone, his neck. They stepped backwards until Crowley was up against the wall, his hands on Aziraphale’s back as the angel traveled lower, kissing his collarbone and swiping the jut of it with his tongue.

“Aziraphale…” he moaned, unable or unwilling to hold back any longer.

“ _Shhh._ It’s alright, my dear.” He planted a kiss on the shell of his ear. “Just let me make you feel good.”

“Mmrgh, yeah it’s just…”

He took a cautious step back. “I’m sorry. Am I going too fast?”

“No! No, I just mean…we should probably…”

“Yes?”

“Go in the bedroom? If you want?”  


Aziraphale’s worry melted away to nothing. “I think I do, rather.”

Crowley tugged him by the sleeve, deeper into the house. And, like Orpheus, Aziraphale followed him. Crowley didn’t need to look back. He knew he would be followed.

They crossed the threshold and Aziraphale’s eyes were dragged immediately from the bed towards the double bookshelves. He halted at the doorway, reading the spines: _History of the Tsars, The Complete Charles Dickens, Walt Whitman, A Guide to Renaissance Art._

“You quite finished, Aziraphale?” Crowley was watching him with a bemused smile from the bed. “You can’t have them, by the way. For your shop.”

“I _know,_ ” he teased, coming to lay down next to Crowley on the bed. “I just can’t help myself, you know.” 

“I do.” Crowley shimmied lower on the bed, laying eye-to-eye with the angel on top of the blankets. “But I thought that today was about me, remember?”

Aziraphale smiled; sunlight breaking through the clouds. “I certainly do.”

Minutes drifted by around them as they stared, each waiting for the other to make the first move. Aziraphale watched Crowley’s eyes because he could. Because he was in Crowley’s _bedroom,_ laying beside him because he’d been invited in. For years they knew each other best by the backs of their heads as they retreated to separate sides and distant years. All of this staring, this self-indulgent study, was bliss.

“It’s odd,” Aziraphale whispered, raising his hand to shift the hair from Crowley’s brow, “the impulse I have to quote poetry, now.”

“Hmm,” the demon looked delighted, even as he dragged a hand down his face in disgust, “you’re going to be insufferable now, eh? Now that we’re dating?”

Aziraphale looked like the cat that swallowed the canary, and the whole aviary along with it. “Is that what we’re doing? _Dating?”_

Crowley shielded his face with both hands. 

Aziraphale plucked them away, one by one. “It feels more like remembering, to me.”

Crowley watched as the angel inched closer. He hovered at his lips before pulling back, supporting himself on one arm as he leaned down to press a kiss to Crowley’s temple. 

“I remember you in Egypt, with your hair flowing down your back.” He traced a finger down Crowley’s chest, making him gasp. His hand stopped just above his navel, where his curly hair had once hung. Crowley watched and waited.

His hand slipped beneath Crowley’s shirt, tugging at the hem of it. “Do you mind…?”

Crowley nodded and before he could sit up to remove it Aziraphale’s hands were on him again, slowly unbuttoning.

“I thought you were trying to kill me, you know, when you took my arm in the gallery.” He paused as the top button was undone, dragging his fingers languidly over the protrusion of Crowley’s collar bone. “I’ve been thinking about doing this quite a lot.”

Crowley smiled, still dizzy from the attention. “What about you?”

Aziraphale shrugged, waving him off. “We’re focusing on you, remember?”

“Yes, and it’s my day so I get to make the calls, yeah?”

“Uh, yes. I suppose.”

“Well, I want to see you.” He tugged on the pocket of Aziraphale’s waistcoat. “If I can find you under all ten layers of your unnecessary clothing.”

“It’s called fashion, Crowley.”

“It’s excessive is what it is.”

Aziraphale obeyed, however reluctant he was to see it through. The last thing he wanted to do was spoil the moment, but Aziraphale’s past partners had been less than enthusiastic about his figure. And the lights were still on…

Crowley reached up to help him unbutton his waistcoat. His fingers were so light he barely felt them. “‘Wanted to do this for such a long time.” 

Azirphale shrugged out of the waistcoat, then his dress shirt, and Crowley reached up to tug the white undershirt off of his shoulders. He watched the demon impatiently, gauging his reaction.

“Get over here,” he said, tugging him back down onto the bed. And then, to himself, “just beautiful.”

Aziraphale’s lips were on his in an instant. He nibbled at Crowley’s lips before slipping his tongue inside. The demon moaned beneath him, already beginning to lose control. And all he could manage to think while a literal angel took him apart with his lips, was that Brontë had been right when she’d said: whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same. She was _right._

So was Plato when he spoke of the Good— that complex, cosmic matter at the beginning of the universe. When everything in existence was one burning brightness positioned in the heavens; that cosmic lightness of perfection and transcendence. The Good that yearns for nothing because it has never known what it is to be broken or unfulfilled. But that was before the explosion of the universe, when an earth was made, and on it, mortals, who suffer and love and die because they are fallible. As Plato said, we forget, on this earth of horrors, what it was like to be that way— self-fulfilled and safe. We remember only a distant sensation of what it felt like to be whole, and it is the pursuit of that feeling, that want, that drives us to drugs and pain and any temporary salve to lessen the wound of mortality; that showy crack in the marble. 

Every day since his fall Crowley thought about perfection (Plato's _Phaedrus_ couldn't hold a candle to his years of philosophizing). He knew that he would never know it— not fully. As a demon, it was not in his nature. But he remembered the feeling of it as his hands chartered star paths in the sky. It was a feeling that fuzzed the world at its edges. No sharp corners. The permanent taste of wine upon the lips. 

He licked into Aziraphale’s mouth and it tasted the same. 

And Aziraphale kissed back and it _felt_ the same. 

“Ah,” Crowley moaned, “Ah-Ziraphale…”

Aziraphale caught his cries in a kiss and it felt like the end of the world in the nicest possible way.

……

“Hey, Aziraphale,” Crowley said, nuzzling the angel’s neck. “You never did tell me why you left that night in Russia.”

The angel looked down, curling a stray hair behind his lover’s ear. “Didn’t I?”

“No, you didn’t. I explained Egypt. You should explain Russia.”

Aziraphale sighed, still dragging his nails over Crowley’s scalp. “Well, it was your notebook that did it.”

Crowley frowned. “My notebook?”

“Yes, the one you shared with your boss.”

“Well what does that have to do with—”

“I saw your poem, you see. The one you wrote for him.”

Crowley lurched forward from the bed, incredulous. “You think I wrote a poem for…Mikhail?”

“Um, yes? Come now, Crowley. Surely you can be honest now, after all these years. Mikhail sounded like a wonderful person; very interesting…”

“He was my _friend,_ Aziraphale. That’s all.” He sighed, remembering the jovial Russian and all his awkward friendliness. “Though that feels like quite a lot, really.”

Aziraphale nodded, stroking Crowley’s arm as he settled back down, remembering.

“That poem wasn’t for him. Though he sure mocked me when he read it.”

“Then who was it for?”

Crowley smirked. “Some English girl I met at a party.”

_“Oh.”_ Aziraphale made no attempt to hide the relief from his voice.

“Why do you think I have so many books here, hmm?”

Aziraphale simply watched him, waiting.

“I have to have somewhere to put them.”

“What?”

“The words I have for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Here," I say as I click 'post,' "have some (almost unbearable) softness." :D


	7. And the Rain Came

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for anxiety and panic attacks 💜💜

Mornings are different, now. No more opening the shop alone, making tea and wondering what to do with the time. Aziraphale was still struggling to define them, these soft risings. Their formula was becoming delightfully standard. A hand on a chest, the muffled sounds of wakefulness beside him on the pillows. The question of, _‘how are you?’_ answered without a single word.

There is a certain divinity to mornings, Aziraphale decided, that can only be glimpsed in the company of another.

“Mhmmm.” An auburn wisp of hair groaned from the other side of the bed while Aziraphale watched, bemused. He’d laugh at Crowley’s disdain for mornings, if it wasn’t so endearing.

“Good morning, my dear.” He reached a hand beneath the blankets, rubbing a thumb over Crowley’s nape, encouraging him. “How did you sleep?”

Like a cat, Crowley rolled over, arching his back in a full-body stretch. “Fine. How about you, angel?”

“Me? Oh, yes. Just fine.”

Crowley glowered, unimpressed. “You stayed up all night reading Homer again, didn’t you?”

Aziraphale tossed his end of the blankets aside, revealing an elaborately-bound copy of the _Iliad_ splayed across his chest. “Guilty as charged, I’m afraid.”

“Hmm,” Crowley hummed, “I knew it.” 

He shimmied closer to Aziraphale, carefully removing the book and placing it on the bedside table for safekeeping. Then he took Aziraphale’s face in his hands and kissed him. Long and slow, like the morning light that covered everything. Cold toes on warm thighs as Crowley inched closer. Aziraphale loved these moments when Crowley was sleep-loose and searching, always seeking contact even in spite of his grumpiness at being up at ‘such an ungodly hour.’ Although, perhaps it was best to assume that, as a demon, all of Crowley’s hours were ungodly.

Aziraphale had been right about one thing: their proximity did feel a lot like remembering. It had been decades since Aziraphale had been properly touched; the novelty of it electrified every gesture. And Crowley knew what he was doing. He watched Aziraphale’s face through it all, seeking out the pleasure and how best to give it. Each new touch and the reaction it earned was memorized upon impact and stowed away for later. And each one of Crowley’s smiles, the bright ones and the muffled ones, proved his constancy. The looks they exchanged could plant gardens.

Crowley, he was beginning to learn, craved touch in a way that Azirphale had never known in another person. His hands found his easily in hallways and across tabletops; they traced the length of him in bed, rubbing and learning. It was a marvel, really, how the black-clad, sunglass-wearing figure of his memory transformed so readily into passion. Those years of insulating himself from the outside world, protecting himself from others were becoming increasingly difficult to recall. No shield stood between them now, and Aziraphale considered it a privilege to bear witness. To study his easy laugh and the lines it made across his face like sheet music. He bites back the urge to trace them with his fingers, even now. It wasn’t until they had read together that Aziraphale realized the depths of his desire for contact. Crowley leaned in closer every chance he got. For every passing kiss Aziraphale gave him, Crowley made it two, until there was no such thing as “in passing.”

It was beginning to make Aziraphale wonder whether he would ever have the courage to step out of this house again.

“So,” said Crowley, slumping down beside Aziraphale, a hand still tracing his mussed curls, “what do you want to do today?”

 _Yes, Aziraphale,_ he asked himself, _what is it that you want?_

Aziraphale had been thinking a lot about that lately— what he wants. He had spent a great deal of his life wanting things. However un-angelic the feeling was, he did little to stifle it. He wanted art; to be surrounded by beauty and vividness and colour. He sought out artists from around the globe, devouring their masterpieces like fine chocolates. He found a home among Monet’s water lilies, and a seat in the empty chair of Van Gogh’s oil-painted house. They hung on his walls, colouring his days until the guilt of his covetous nature got to him, and he passed them on to galleries and museums. Beauty, Aziraphale knew, should be shared.

The books were different. The delicately-arranged typeset could always be recalled and reused, sharing their author’s words with the masses. The books he kept were not his alone; the comfort he drew from their pages could always be shared. And the few minor details that set his books apart— a misplaced ‘c’ or a careless spelling, evidence of the typist’s mortality— were like freckles. Unintentional beauty marks signalling their rarity. He knew them by heart, the imperfections of world building.

Crowley, somehow, was a combination of the two. His cautious smiles and his unconscious ones were artful. He was beginning to learn the freckles of him, both physical and metaphorical. He’d traced them once, the constellation scattered over Crowley’s left shoulder. The man who made the stars got to wear them, too. Perhaps it was a small mercy. Crowley was the only canvas that loved him back.

But that’s not quite true, is it? Because Crowley is anything but static. He isn’t the cold, marble statues that lined the garden to Aziraphale’s villa. No, Crowley is different. He’s _warm._ His beauty is something pliable and giving. He could mould himself around Aziraphale a thousand different ways, nuzzling closer for warmth. When they lay in bed together, the words _thank you_ come easily.

Aziraphale adored Crowley for all of his cuddling. The way he was never left alone for long. It almost made him feel guilty for all the years he had spent attempting to tramp down and contain his own desire to touch. If Crowley was this affectionate now, it was a marvel how he had made it so long without.

“Angel?”

“Hmm?”

He swirled his finger around a particularly tenacious curl at Aziraphale’s temple. “You got away from me, again. I was asking you what you’d like to do today.”

“Ah, yes of course,” he offered Crowley a weak smile. “I think I ought to go to the bookshop and check on things.”

They’d been together (in some form or another) for nearly two weeks now, and in that time they’d done everything together. Crowley even accompanied Aziraphale on grocery runs to buy food that he’d likely never eat, simply because he didn’t want to break the pattern. Neither of them did. To Aziraphale, the idea of leaving Crowley’s home even for a moment felt like he was risking something. He worried that leaving might break the spell they were under, and Crowley’s anxiety would creep back in and everything would fall apart. Although they were closer now than ever before, that fact did little to assuage the fear.

Now, they had more to lose. They had seen too much of each other to ever accept anything less.

“Mmm, understandable.” Crowley stared up at him patiently. “Would you like me to go with you?”

“That’s alright, dearest. You get some rest, and I’ll be back in time for lunch. Perhaps I can bring you home something?”

Crowley hummed, already burrowing into the pillows again. “I wouldn’t say no to some soup.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Soup it is, then.”

Crowley looked disappointed even as he fell back onto his pillow, clearly looking forward to the rest. As much as he did not want Aziraphale to leave, he understood that one of them would have to be brave, eventually.

Aziraphale was unwilling to spend any more of his time in a garden without the knowledge that they could survive in the cities, too.

He needn’t have left, Aziraphale realized as he stepped into the dim light of the shop. Everything was in working order. Well, that is to say, nothing had drastically changed. The bizarre sorting patterns were maintained, and the smell of parchment still permeated everything. The tea had gone cold, but such was to be expected.

“Hello,” he said, tracing a hand across a row of Victorian novels. “I’ve missed you.”

Aziraphale ambled around the shop lazily, breathing it in. The comfort of hardcovers and warmth. He took his time selecting some books of poetry he’d been meaning to get to, tucking them into his rucksack. He even dug through the hall closet, retrieving a navy and black plaid blanket that he thought Crowley might like. The material was plush and silky-smooth. Given Crowley’s appreciation for tactility, he felt certain he would like it. 

In fact, he felt certain Crowley would like this place, too. This mercurial bookshop where esoteric literature covered every surface. Sure, it was a bit cluttered and Aziraphale never did have the patience for a thorough dusting, but it had a homey quality to it. Aziraphale felt more relaxed among the books and letters than anywhere else on earth (with the marked exception of Crowley’s bed). Perhaps the demon might one day feel the same way.

He sighed. It was all too fast, too soon. In two weeks they had moved previously immovable mountains to be together. To ask any more of Crowley felt dangerous. The last thing he wanted was to make Crowley uncomfortable. Besides, it would be unfair of him to ask Crowley to give up his home. Especially for this one, which was so cluttered and unfashionable compared to his minimalist and elegant little house.

The books would simply have to wait.

Aziraphale stopped in his bedroom on the way out, gathering some extra clothes and a spare sketchbook from under his bed. He’d been meaning to get back to it for years, but lacked the motivation. Perhaps Crowley would allow him to draw him, someday. He always did have the most expressive features.

He hovered in the doorway, studying for a moment the quilt-laden bed, seldom used, and the stack of pillows at the head of it. Crowley wouldn’t like those. He could see the demon making snide comments even as he peeled back the layers and slithered inside. He loved the comforting things, though he’d never admit it. It made Aziraphale want to gift him comfort after comfort until he hadn’t the energy to protest.

 _Soup,_ he thought. _I’ll start with that._

He stopped by Angelo’s on the way home, buying two bowls of chicken noodle soup and a couple of croissants. He didn’t think twice about the miracle he used to keep them warm on the cab ride back, as cold and dreary as it was. Rain clouds had been steadily encroaching since noon, and the darkness was only growing. By the time he arrived back at the house, the first rolls of thunder were behind him, chasing the lightening that flashed across the sky.

“Crowley?” He called, hanging his drenched jacket at the door. “I’m back from the shop.”

The lights were turned on, but the couch was empty.

For a moment, Aziraphale’s heart froze in his chest. _Could this be…Heaven? No— don’t even think it._

As quietly as he could, Aziraphale deposited the food on the kitchen table. A flash of lightening illuminated the hall and shortly after, a muffled crash could be heard from the bedroom. Although, it could easily have been the thunder.

“Crowley?”

Aziraphale ran towards the sound, his hands in ready fists. He pushed inside the bedroom and found the bed empty and torn apart, the closet behind slightly open. 

_“…’Ziraphale.”_

Aziraphale turned. A single barefoot protruded from the open closet where a small figure sat hunched among shoes and fallen shirts. He wore only his boxers and a loosely-fitted undershirt. He must have been in the process of getting dressed when—

A loud thunderclap shook the house.

Crowley’s hands began to shake. 

Aziraphale knelt down in front of him, anxious to pull him to his chest but shocked by the severe look on his face. He’d never seen the demon so afraid. “My dear, can you tell me what happened?”

Crowley shook his head, _no._ His throat as dry as the desert.

“Alright then.” Aziraphale reached for his bag and began rifling around inside. “Are you hurt?”

Once again, Crowley shook his head in response.

“That’s good.” The room flashed as a bolt of lightning split the sky and Crowley braced himself against the doorframe. “Is it the thunder?”

The look in Crowley’s eyes screamed, _yes._

Aziraphale nodded before climbing into the closet to sit beside him. The closet was wide but shallow. With both doors open, their legs sprawled out before them into the bedroom as they sat side-by-side, shoulders touching. Aziraphale gave Crowley a tentative smile and began draping the blanket from his shop around his shoulders. He made sure that the soft fabric was wrapped snugly around Crowley’s bare arms and thighs, giving him something to focus on other than himself. He accepted it gladly, pulling the blanket tight around his neck as well.

Still, Crowley couldn’t look at him. He kept his head down, away from Aziraphale even as they sat so close together on the floor. He must have been embarrassed, Aziraphale thought, to have been found like this. The demon wasn’t even wearing his glasses.

The room brightened with the glow of another lightening strike and Crowley stiffened, bracing for impact.

Before the thunder hit, Aziraphale tugged Crowley to his side. The demon enthusiastically complied, burrowing into Aziraphale’s chest as the angel rubbed his back in slow, steady movements. He applied just enough pressure so that Crowley would feel it. So that he would have something tangible to hold onto.

“You’re alright, my dear. You’re alright. You’re doing so well.” A minute passed like this; with Aziraphale hanging onto Crowley and Crowley silently dying. “Would it help if I talked to you?”

Crowley nodded against his chest.

“Hmm. Let’s see. Did I ever tell you about the time I fancied a girl from Russia? Well, perhaps she wasn’t _from_ Russia; not exactly.”

Crowley looked up slightly, one eye wide with interest.

“…Girls like her are from everywhere and nowhere, I suppose. They belong to the world…”

Crowley’s breathing began to even out as he listened, eyes closed, to the story.

Aziraphale spoke slowly, drawing out the details one by one. Their dance in the Great Hall, their moment of peace on the balcony, and the time that a historian stepped out of the past for a single night.

“Did you know that I came to hear you speak at the Tsarskoye Selo Lyceum, once?”

Crowley gaped at him, pulling away. Outside, the lightening was beginning to subside. “You don’t say?”

“It’s true. I wanted to apologize to you for…well, for that night. It took me nearly a year to muster up the courage to face you after what happened, and I wanted so badly to see you again. To have my old friend back. On my way to your office, I saw a poster for your talk in the History Department. I thought I’d attend and maybe speak with you afterwards.”

“And? Why didn’t you?”

Aziraphale took his hand; wound their fingers together. “I was so impressed with your work. The way you commanded the audience as you shared your research. Remarkable.”

“But what does that—”

“What does that have to do with me leaving?” He sighed. “I couldn’t take you away from all of that. From the work you loved so dearly— though I wanted to. I wanted to ask you to come with me back to France, to anywhere on earth with me. But I couldn’t.”

He looked to the window across from them, watching as a series of water droplets raced one another down the glass. Centuries feel the same way, sometimes. A series of near misses and the occasional collision. 

“You deserve better than someone who would ask you to sacrifice the things you love.” He sighed, remembering the trip home from St. Petersburg; how empty it felt. “I knew then that I didn’t deserve you. Not as I was.”

For a long, drawn out moment, Crowley was silent. He stared out into the bedroom, his mind reeling at this new information. “Same with you though, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale frowned. “What do you mean?”

“The bookshop. I know you must miss it.”

“I do, but Crowley, I can go back to it at anytime, as I did today.”

Crowley hummed, still staring into the empty room. “You shouldn’t be afraid to, though. Afraid to go without me. Worrying about me.” 

Aziraphale shook his head, moving a hand to rub Crowley’s back in comfort. “I _like_ worrying about you. But I like it even more when you let me help you.”

The demon nodded. “I think I might have anxiety.”

“Yes, dear,” Aziraphale grinned, “I’ve gathered that.”

Crowley scoffed. “Bastard.” He took a pause before speaking again. “I’ve always had it, I think. Since the fall. Like my mind catches fire sometimes, and it takes all the air from me.”

Aziraphale nodded, not knowing what else to do.

“The thunder makes it worse.” He looked down at his hand, picking absentmindedly at his finger nail. “It was like this the day I fell…an electrical storm.”

“Oh, Crowley.”

“Never knew if I had caused it, or them. I’m still not sure. I screamed pretty loud…always wondered if it was my fault. If I created the thing that scared me on the way down.”

“Either way, it wouldn’t have been your fault.”

A pained smile flashed across the demon’s face. “I know. I do know that, now. It’s just hard…don’t like loud noises.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Well, what have you been doing during the air raids?”

Crowley simply stared in front of him, his eyes still glazed and heavy.

“Right.” Aziraphale rose from the closet floor, dragging Crowley with him by the arm. “Follow me.”

Aziraphale led him into the kitchen, where he retrieved the takeout bag and placed it in Crowley’s arms. He then took him back into the bedroom where he stripped the bed of its quilt in one fluid motion and used it to cover the floor inside the closet.

“Come on;” he said, “come sit.” 

The floor was already more bearable, with only the quilt overtop the hardwood. 

He waved to Crowley. “Come on! Before the soup gets cold.”

“You’re serious about this?” Crowley asked, his voice coloured with affection.

The angel smiled up at him from the floor, his waistcoat still sprinkled with raindrops and his plump proportions filling up an already small closet. He looked like a grown-up on a children’s ride at the amusement park. The sight made Crowley want to kiss him senseless.

“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale said. “If this is a comforting place for you, then this is where we’ll go. Now, and during the air raids.”

“Most people go underground.”

“Well, we aren’t most people, now are we?”

Crowley shook his head, crouching to sit beside him on the quilt.

“And besides, the bombs aren’t going to find us here. You’re far too optimistic to allow such a thing to happen. So…”

“This can work.”

“This can work,” he echoed.

The soup was delicious, and somehow, still warm. They enjoyed it in amicable silence, each watching the other in between spoonfuls and croissants. Aziraphale broke his bread into small pieces and scattered them in his soup bowl. Crowley watched him do it and called him a heathen.

Their laughter lasted longer than it should have.

“You can ask me, you know.” Crowley said, as he took their bowls and placed them on the hardwood floors outside their sanctuary.

“Ask you what, my dear?”

“For anything, really. I know that you hold back, sometimes. You don’t like to burden people.”

“Crowley…”

“No, no. It’s fine, angel. I get it. It’s hard to ask for what you want when you aren’t supposed to want anything at all. I was an angel once and believe me, I haven’t forgotten a day of it. I’m just saying…I _want_ you to be able to ask for things.”

“Alright.”

“Because I will do my best to give them to you. You know that right?”

Aziraphale’s eyes burned with tears as he nodded. Crowley clasped onto the collar of Aziraphale’s shirt, gifting him with the life preserver Aziraphale had given to him when he’d discovered him in the closet. He gave him comfort.

“We aren’t in Russia, anymore. We’re here. And you can even ask me the big questions, if you want to.”

Aziraphale smiled, looking away. “Such as?”

Crowley pressed a chaste kiss to his temple. “To go with you. To leave this place.”

Aziraphale shook his head, “I wouldn’t want to…”

“I have nothing here, this time. Nothing I wouldn’t…” he knelt down in front of Aziraphale, placing himself squarely in his lap, “heartlessly abandon.”

Aziraphale hummed, his hands finding Crowley’s hips easily. “And you wouldn’t mind living above a bookshop? Surrounded by dust and clutter and old things?”

Crowley shook his head, his arms snaking around Aziraphale’s neck.

“And your house?”

“Doesn’t belong to me,” Crowley told him. “And I believe that, at this very moment, the bloke who owns it is about to become _miraculously_ discharged from the service.”

“You kept in touch with him?” Aziraphale asked, incredulous.

“Something like that.”

Aziraphale sighed. “My dear, you have always been too kind for your own good.”

“Don’t be soft.”

“Says the demon with his arms around my neck.”

“Precisely.”

His hands threaded through Aziraphale’s curls as he kissed him. 

“My dear Crowley, would you care to come and live with me in Soho?”

Crowley answered by kissing him, hard. “It’s about time you asked me that.” 

............................................. 

The clock on the wall read 4:44am.

Aziraphale watched as Crowley rolled over, a single yellow iris blinking at him from the pillow top. “You ok, angel?”

He turned to face him fully, brushing a loose strand of hair from Crowley’s face. He was in need of a haircut, though Aziraphale prayed he wouldn’t get one. “I’m fine, dearest.”

Crowley shuffled closer, nosing at Aziraphale’s exposed shoulder. His voice was sleep-rough and heavy. “What are you thinking about?”

Aziraphale sighed. “Remember when you told me that I should be able to ask for what I want?”

Crowley raised himself from the pillow, watching Aziraphale with a concerned expression. “Yes?”

“Well, I’ve been thinking about it, and…”

“And?”

“…And I want to paint a portrait.” He nodded, the weight of his words sinking in. “I want to paint a portrait of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! And to everyone who has left kind comments on this fic, thank you so much! Your comments have given me such motivation to keep going and to explore the dynamics of this story more and more. As you've probably noticed, the chapter count for this fic has gone up.... I decided that I am not ready to say goodbye to them just yet! 
> 
> Also, the love affair between an art collector and a historian is the romance I never knew I needed. 💜


	8. ὁμοφροσύνη

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what, my dear?”

_“Staring.”_ Crowley took a stab at his breakfast and nudged Aziraphale with his foot beneath the table. “Feels like you’re undressing me with your eyes.”

“Are you implying that you’d like me to undress you _not_ with my eyes?” Aziraphale’s eyebrows made his hairline recede even further with glee.

_Bastard._

Crowley kept eating, working to keep his expression neutral. “‘Course. But maybe let me finish one meal before it goes cold, yeah?”

Aziraphale nodded, still blatantly staring. “As you wish.”

He liked the way Crowley looked, eating melon in the quiet of his kitchen. Their kitchen. It already felt like he was a part of the fabric of this place, he existed here so easily. Aziraphale saw it in the way he tossed his hair as he read book-spines, and the way he gazed out the window with the peaceful nonchalance of a man who’d been doing it for years. They’d even shifted the shop hours to allow for slower mornings (if they decided to open at all). It baffled Aziraphale now, to think that he’d once had to wonder whether Crowley would want to come here— to live with him. The way he took his tea in the only black coffee mug Aziraphale owned, his shadowy nightgown pulling out the darker tones of the furniture…well, it was like a painting. Two days into this new living arrangement and already Aziraphale wanted to frame it.

A cold foot caught in the leg of Aziraphale’s trousers beneath the table. “What are you thinking about, anyway? You go quiet sometimes. I’m not sure where you go.”

“Oh, I was just thinking…”

“Yeah, I’ve gathered that. About what?”

The angel scoffed. “No, it’s silly.”

Crowley discarded his fork with a haphazard clang. “Well now you have to tell me.”

“It’s just…well, I was thinking that the dress you have on would be quite fetching for your portrait.” The garment hung loosely around Crowley’s slim figure, reminding Aziraphale of the dresses he once wore in Egypt. Only this nightgown was— with the exception of the slightly puffed sleeves that gathered at his shoulders— composed entirely of black lace. His hair hung in a short bob, curls beginning to form around his ears. Crowley’s hair always did grow remarkably fast, perhaps because he believed that this was the way with all humans on earth. Aziraphale simply didn’t have the heart to enlighten him.

Crowley blushed, his eyes falling to the carved piece of cantaloupe in front of him. “So, you’re a fan of the night-gown then, eh?”

“I do believe I am a fan of all of your clothes, but yes, the dress is particularly lovely.”

Crowley nearly knocked over the juice glass as he reached for it. “I thought you were kidding that night, when you mentioned a portrait.”

“Why on earth would I be kidding?”

Crowley shrugged, swallowing. “Dunno. People say things when they’re in bed together. Nice things.”

“Perhaps,” Aziraphale replied, “but I am also asking you now, in the light.”

The demon nodded, stuffing another piece of melon into his mouth.

“Well, have you ever had a portrait done?”

Crowley smirked, nudging him again with his foot. “No. Why? You want to paint me like one of your French girls?”

“No need to make it sound so vulgar.” The angel grinned, even while he delivered a scolding. “It’s just that you have such striking features, my dear, and yet I don’t even have a photograph of you.”

“I can get a photo taken, you know. There’s a shop on the corner…”

Aziraphale shook his head. A photograph is too easy. A momentary flash and an artefact produced. No; it would not do. 

Aziraphale wanted to work for it.

“I didn’t know you knew how to draw,” admitted Crowley, “or paint, even. Just thought you liked…what’s the word? Acquiring?”

“You’re right, I do enjoy art collecting, but I’ve dabbled in the arts myself over the years. When the moment strikes.”

“And this is one of those moments?”

Aziraphale nodded.

“Hmm,” hummed Crowley, mulling it over. “And I suppose you want to be the artist for this one, eh? Not a…” he waved a hand snobbishly in the air, “professional?”

“No,” said Aziraphale, folding his hands neatly in his lap. “A _professional,_ as you so sensitively put it, would be a foolish endeavour.”

Art had always been a second heart, for Aziraphale. Not just a passion that could be picked up and put down at will, but something far deeper. A path. If the photographer captured moments, then the painter captured the feeling that flowed beneath them, translating an undercurrent of emotions into something more tangible. A flash of colours that spoke without speaking. He had drifted through studios and down lecture halls for years, collecting artefacts of masters and struggling students alike. He had rifled through canvases that ought to be eulogized in art history lectures for centuries, as well as pieces which earned their anonymity. He’d seen immaculate brushwork bring out the smallest details; a hand on a shoulder, a tender look frozen in oil and charcoal. And every time, it was the disposition of the artist which bestowed life to the two-dimensional subjects. Life, and light. The twin elements of artistic greatness.

And yet, the light that found Crowley through the open kitchen window was enough on its own. Aziraphale, who insisted upon reading the last page of a book first, could already see the end result. He saw in Crowley’s morning illumination the painting he’d thought of a thousand times but had never dared to attempt. Crowley was a magnum opus in a dressing gown; made to be admired.

The thought that any old prodigy; a quick learner of light and shadows; could capture the shades of Crowley was laughable. It would be a cruel commission. _How would the painter know the shapes of him? The way his hand crossed his stomach in laughter, or the light which sat behind his eyes even at 3am, when he was tired and far too grumpy to ask for the closeness he needed?_ Crowley had developed the habit of brushing absentmindedly at his hairline when he was deep in thought. _What if the painter captured the displaced hair without knowing its significance?_ It would be like Rilke translated into English. All of the structure without the fire beneath the skin.

“Why?” Asked Crowley. “Why wouldn’t they be able to get it right?”

He knew the answer before he heard it.

“Because no one else knows you as I do.”

In the days that passed, Aziraphale began to carry a small sketchbook under his arm. He’d retrieve it during the quiet moments, when little more was occurring than shared company. He scribbled at it with graphite and charcoal, pausing now and again to smudge a mark or clean up a line. He did it during breakfast, as Crowley cut a slice of melon and pretended to read the paper. He worked while Crowley read on the sofa, taking in the pages with slow, languid blinks. 

Sometimes, Crowley stared back. He loved seeing Aziraphale’s face so painted with focus. The way he’d pursue a task for hours, studying Crowley and the page. He liked the look of his hands, shaded and streaked with the charcoal of his lover’s form. His dedication suited him.

Aziraphale would never let Crowley see the finished product, however. It was too early for that, he’d say. _It’s not ready; not yet._

He was teaching Crowley a virtue he hated— patience.

And Aziraphale was learning, too. He learned that his memory was far from perfect. The sharp curve of Crowley’s nose was as complex as stained glass to him. Challenging to replicate. The portrait had been on his mind for years, but he had never been able to get it right; the sketches always fell hopelessly short. They failed to touch him. But, with a muse eating melon slices and buttered toast across the dining room table from him, he felt he might be able to manage it.

“Ok,” he said one morning, taking a sip of his sugary coffee. “I think I’m ready.”

“Today?” Asked Crowley, toast suspended midair in front of him. His nightgown had slipped off of his shoulder, and his hair above it was disheveled from sleep.

_Endearing,_ Aziraphale thought.

“Are you sure you want to do this today?”

“I’d begin right now, if you’re free.”

“Ngk— well…you’ve got to give me time, angel. I just woke up.”

“Nonsense.” Aziraphale was already on the way to his old leather suitcase in the bedroom where he kept his brushes. “You look gorgeous.”

Crowley scoffed, rising to follow Aziraphale into the bedroom. The angel ushered him back to the table with a no-nonsense look in his eye. “No, no. Please, sit. As you were, dearest.”

Crowley sat down, tentatively. “So… you’re just going to paint me— what? Eating a melon?”

“You can do whatever you’d like. Eat, don’t eat; it’s up to you.” 

Crowley barely had a moment to process the sudden appearance of an easel when Aziraphale turned to face him, brush in hand. “I just need to see you, that’s all.”

Much to Crowley’s surprise, the process was (for the most part) painless. Aziraphale worked quietly, humming every now and again as he got something right; scowling to himself each time his hands failed to live up to his expectations. They exchanged words when the focus became too much. When the joy of proximity, to which they had yet to become accustomed, was overwhelming. Crowley studied Aziraphale’s steady hands and arms, the same arms that held him just hours before, as they worked to capture his likeness. It seemed impossible, really, that he should be another’s muse. 

The muses, according to the Ancient Greeks, were more ideas than people. Beautiful patron goddesses of the arts, delicate and divine. They showed mankind the skills of writing history, music, stories….the sweet things. Γλυκιστος, in fact — the _sweetest_ of things. Their celestial fingers touched the minds of bright men and women until cleverness became their identity. No one remembers Pindar for his kindness to strangers or his peculiar personality. They remember him for his poetry; the gift he created. Muse-made. 

Crowley was no goddess, no ideal. He was a many-named creature. A demon, a fallen angel, a historian, and now, a lover. But a muse? Impossible. 

“You’re awfully quiet.” It was a statement, not a question.

Crowley shrugged, watching as Aziraphale mixed ochre and cherry together, the colour of the kitchen cupboards behind him.

The artist waited until he had fleshed out the perfect shade before continuing. “Your brow is doing that thing again.”

“My brow?”

Aziraphale nodded, his contorted face still chained to the canvas. “It’s tense. Is something bothering you?”

Crowley shook his head. “I’m just trying to understand, really.”

“Understand what?”

“You, I suppose.”

Aziraphale set the palette down, his fingers stained a delicate pink. “Me?”

Again, Crowley nodded. “Why you’re doing any of this. ‘ve been trying to figure out your angle.”

“Must I have an agenda, to want to paint you?”

“To paint me, no. But to look at me as you are…there must be some reason.”

Aziraphale grinned, a half-sincere, half-bemused thing. “There is. I can assure you of that.”

Crowley hummed. “Still, it should be me painting you, ‘ziraphale. Not the other way around.” Aziraphale took up the palette once more, pointedly ignoring him. “You’re divine. Literally, divine.”

“Stop that.”

Any spare courage pent up in Crowley’s overburdened heart rose to the surface as he met his eyes and told him, “make me.” 

For a moment, Crowley thought he might. Aziraphale’s hands stilled as he glared at Crowley like a petulant sailor, insisting to sail even when the sea was rough and storm-tossed. He looked like a man familiar with drowning.

The artist hesitated, but surrendered. Abandoning his easel, he approached Crowley with a particularly keen expression. He raised a hand to the demon’s cheek, sweeping back a loose lock of hair. The gentleness of it made Crowley shiver.

_Two can play this game,_ Aziraphale thought. Placing his hand delicately beneath the demon’s chin, he raised it, meeting a pair of golden eyes. “Please do look at me when you are speaking to me, dearest. I need to see those eyes.”

Crowley gave an almost imperceptible nod in timid surrender.

Aziraphale returned to the canvas with a spring in his step, the morning light still on his side. He took up the palette again with renewed vigour. 

He’d just finished outlining Crowley’s shoulders when the demon spoke again. “Will you do one for me?”

“This one is for you, dear.”

“No, not that. I want one of you. A portrait.”

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. “I’m sure that’s not necessary.”

“But I’m certain that it is.” Crowley tugged at a loose string on the front of his nightgown, rubbing the soft material between his fingers. “You think that you’re studying me right now, trying to get the image right…”

Aziraphale’s eyes trailed from the edge of the canvas, watching him.

“…And you don’t think that I’m studying you, too? Trying to get you right?”

“Crowley—”

“I’ve never been called observant, but I do see quite a lot, you know. I see the way you love everything completely. Even that canvas in front of you— you just _love_ things so bloody much. Makes me want to take the easel from you an’ throw it away.”

He frowned. “You’d rather I not do this at all?”

“No,” said Crowley, pinching his thigh to keep his words from wavering. “I’d just prefer to have all of your attention. I’m a demon. I deserve to be greedy.”

Aziraphale grinned. “Then why are you showing me such patience, if that is truly what you want?”

Crowley shrugged. “Because I want you to be happy. If that means me passing the entire morning in a nightgown and slippers, then fine.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “What an immense sacrifice you’re making.”

“Mhm. I can only hope he appreciates it,” he sighed. “My _lover._ It can be difficult, sometimes; dating an artist.”

If Crowley were trying to distract him, then he’d surely succeeded. The soft words sounded so foreign in his voice. It stopped Aziraphale in his tracks, that simple, delicate word: _lover._

Aziraphale hummed, happy to play along. “So temperamental, those artist-types. So preoccupied with their own work.”

“I know,” Crowley sighed, toying with a stray curl. “He’s alright, though. I think I’ll keep him around.”

“Well, I just hope that he treats you well.” Aziraphale deposited his brush into the water, swirling it about. Slowly, he stepped towards Crowley once more. 

He dragged the backs of his nails over the skin of Crowley’s forearm where it lay on the table, exposed. “You know, if you were mine, I would never take my eyes off of you.”

Crowley did his best to restrain the satisfied smile creeping over his face. “Never?”

“Never.”

“Well, what sort of muse would I be if you couldn’t look away to paint me? Pointless, really, to have a muse without the art.”

“Unless you yourself are the art.” Aziraphale sat himself down on the tabletop, just far enough away that Crowley couldn’t reach him without moving. “Hmm. Well, you could always be Clio, the Muse of History. You played that role very well, I must say.”

Crowley looked up at him, bemused. “I certainly did.”

“Then there’s Euterpe, the Muse of Music.”

The demon scoffed. “How can I _possibly_ be Euterpe? You know I can’t play an instrument— I don’t even sing.”

“You don’t have to sing to sound like music.”

Crowley’s responding laughter was a bit strangled at the edges. “Do you ever…I don’t know…want to throw up? From the things you say?”

Aziraphale laughed. “I’ve quite come to terms with my feelings, my dear. And besides…” he locked eyes with Crowley from across the table, “as I’ve told you, I quite like the sounds you make for me.”

Crowley shook his head even as he rose from his chair. He moved to stand between Aziraphale’s legs, their difference in height erased as Aziraphale watched him from the tabletop. He leaned forward until his parted lips were hovering over the angel’s. Pressing a hand to the angel’s chest, he felt his heartbeat quicken. He glanced down over Aziraphale’s strong forearms, freckled with paint, and thought, _Oh. Perhaps this is what the poets were on about._

_I might be in love with this man._

Unable to let another moment pass, Aziraphale brought their lips together in a kiss. The angel’s legs tightened around Crowley’s waist and it felt like a revelation. A discovery. Aziraphale deepened the kiss and Crowley leaned into the warmth of him, wanting to mirror every gesture, every movement until the angel felt as thrilled and emboldened as Crowley did. He kissed him hard, his artist, who knew every curve of him and how to make them quake. The part of him that hated the scrutinizing attention was quieted by the sight of those hands, soft and paint-stained, that knew him and worked to show the ways.

_Does love always feel like this? Like an echo?_

Crowley broke the kiss, pressing their foreheads together. Aziraphale smelled like coffee and gesso— a combination he never knew he needed. “You’re getting paint all over my lace,” he told him; a statement of fact without an ounce of annoyance.

Aziraphale smiled, his face still flushed from kissing him. “I’ll miracle it later, if you let me touch you now.”

Crowley nodded, his own hands stroking the angel’s neck as they stood with their heads pressed together. ὁμοφροσύνη, Crowley thought. _Being of the same mind and feeling._ He remembers reading it in the _Odyssey,_ this word for one-mindedness. It was used to bind together Odysseus, the many-skilled wanderer, with his clever wife, Penelope. The queen of Ithaca who wove her shroud day and night, refusing the suitors who courted her in favour of her missing man, the one she prayed for, not knowing whether he was alive or dead. Amazing, how late the notion of Schrödinger’s cat came into being. (Poets and distant lovers have understood this meaning since the beginning). 

How lucky the two of them were, Crowley thought, to be able to be this close and still be one.

Silenced by his own musings, Crowley pulled away from Aziraphale, taking him by the hand. Without a word, he led his lover up the stairs and into the bedroom. The one they shared.

The canvas remained in the kitchen, forgotten. 

Very little progress was achieved that day.

Aziraphale looked exhausted. Although he’d never been one for sleep, Crowley had been making a very strong case for it, lately. The angel looked as though he might fall asleep at any moment, with Crowley’s head on his chest. He sincerely hoped he wouldn’t.

Crowley scratched at Aziraphale’s collarbone, coaxing him from the edge of sleep. “Angel?”

“Yes, dear?” A bedroom-heavy voice.

“Will you let me see them?”

“See what?”

“You know,” he burrowed into his neck, “your sketches.”

The angel shook his head, his loose hand muffling a yawn. “Certainly not.”

“Isn’t that against the rules? Seeing as I’m your _model_ and all?”

Aziraphale smirked. “Is that what you are?”

“Shut up, angel. You know what I mean.”

Aziraphale was silent for a long moment, mulling it over. The wide eyes staring back at him were difficult to refuse, particularly in the dark. The hour rendered them almost holy. “Well, I suppose you have a point. But you must promise not to laugh at me.”

Crowley smirked; _I win._ “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Aziraphale rose from the bed with a sigh while Crowley watched him. His right forearm still bore flecks of auburn that had yet to wash out. It made Crowley smile, to see the shades of him caught in the arms that held him.

_Mine,_ the pigment seemed to say.

From beneath the bed, Aziraphale produced a black-leather sketchbook which looked older than time itself. He handed it to Crowley.

He took it like an offering.

Inside, the pages were filled with familiar shapes; some in water-colour, but most etched in charcoal. They were the evidence of a very, very long life. Here, a sketch of an olive branch; there, a well-baked croissant (he would tease Aziraphale for that one, later). The recent ones were easy to find. Studies of chins and lips, and a pair of eyes that dominated the page. The book opened right to them, anticipating the habits of its owner. It wasn’t until Crowley had made his way back to the beginning that he stopped. He gasped as he turned a page to find a thin, wispy water-colour of a garden and, among the flora, himself in a synched chiton. 

“Was this…?”

“Egypt,” Aziraphale whispered, an anxious hand obscuring his mouth, “yes.”

Tentatively, Crowley ran a hand down the image, feeling the indentations of the paper from tools and years. It was him, there was no doubt. But the woman on the page looked…different. Looser. Her garments hung about her easily as her eyes glowed yellow like the flowers at her feet. She looked _happy,_ like a painting that never knew the hardships of three-dimensional life. 

She was beautiful.

“What do you think?” Asked Aziraphale, watching.

Crowley plucked the worried hand from the angel’s lips and kissed the offered palm. “I think it’s my turn.”

Aziraphale frowned. “To do what, exactly?”

“To draw you.”

A skeptical smile crossed his face. “I didn’t know you knew how to—”

“Oh, no, I don’t.” He smiled. “But I would like to try, if you’d let me.”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, “alright. My paints are just—”

“I don’t need those.” Crowley told him, already reaching for the tin of charcoal on the bedside table. “Just this.”

He toyed with a thin piece of charcoal, getting a feel for the weight of it before turning to the blank page in front of him— the last clean page in the book. Beside him, Aziraphale lay stretched out on top of the covers, waiting. He lay on his side, supported by his elbow, with his feet dangling off of the edge of the bed. He’d dragged the end of the bedsheet over his midsection, tucking the tail of it behind him.

Crowley shook his head, removing the added fabric. “That’s not how this works. I am the artist and you must do as I say.”

“I didn’t make you pose,” Aziraphale commented, putting effort into a convincing frown.

“No, but I am a far more temperamental _artiste.”_

Aziraphale hummed, “Evidently.”

Crowley nodded sagely, giving the charcoal an experimental swipe over the drawing paper. “Besides, you’re my favourite thing to look at.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows arched high on his forehead. “I’m sorry, your favourite _thing?_ That’s rather dismissive of you, wouldn’t you agree?”

Crowley sighed, lifting the sketchbook so as to block Aziraphale’s view. “What term would you prefer, hmm? My model, my— wait, wait, wait— what about ‘nude model number four?’”

Aziraphale gasped in offence. “Number four? Really?”

“You know;” Crowley said, “because there have been so _many._ You can’t expect me to learn everyone’s name, Aziraphale. It’d be too difficult.”

Aziraphale sighed. “I suppose _thing_ will have to do, then.” He looked up at Crowley, his eyes no longer tired. “Though I would much prefer to be called your lover.”

Crowley cleared his throat, not daring to lift his eyes from the page. “Right then. Almost finished.”

With a few additional strokes of the charcoal, he handed the book back to Aziraphale, looking rather pleased with himself. “Well, what do you think, angel?”

“It’s…um… _something,_ dear.”

The sketch, Crowley knew, was base. It wasn’t the sort of thing to hang on a wall to display for friends and family. It was dark, over-shaded, and crude. Essentially, it was the outline of a stick figure with softened proportions, draped over a bed which looked suspiciously like a large, black rectangle. The focal point, however— Crowley’s _pièce de résistance_ — was a pair of large, black wings. They consumed much of the page’s limited real estate, looming over their owner with a sharp but gentle curve. 

“Funny,” said Aziraphale, looking rather charmed; “my wings look a lot like yours.”

“Precisely,” whispered Crowley, smiling. “We are the same.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I decided to publish this one early, because I'm very excited about it. (Can you tell that I watched Portrait of a Lady on Fire, recently??) ;) 
> 
> If you're a language nerd like I am, here is some info: ὁμοφροσύνη (homophrosune) used twice in the Odyssey: in 6.181, and 15.198. Both times it is used to describe a unity of thought between lovers in a well-suited marriage. Odysseus seems to have his wife in mind, whom he adored for the cleverness they shared. The term is closely linked with the noun ὁμόνοια (homonoia), meaning single-mindedness. For more info on this word, see: http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/morph?l=ὁμοφροσύνη&la=greek#lexicon
> 
> ^^If you click the hyperlink on the Greek, it will take you to its corresponding passage! Just click "English" on the right hand side once you get there. :)
> 
> Yeah I know-- citing Ancient Greek dictionary passages on a fanfic is intense. But like....do you know how rare it is for Homer to just come up in conversation?? Lol. I have to make these references where I can!


	9. Damnatum

They say that you can never go home again. Crowley doesn’t know exactly who _they_ are, but he knows they’re wrong. He’s had many homes in his long and arduous existence. Athens was a home, once. Before it was an empire and the streets were full of philosophers and their questions. The History Department at Tsarskoye Selo Lyceum was once a home, too. It smelled like wet brick and parchment in the mornings, and was full of curious people who thought faster than their lips could speak. He has a standing reservation at a tea house in Tokyo that keeps changing its name. And there is also a small cafe in Assisi— who knows whether it still stands?— where Crowley once passed afternoons with tea and baklava. The owner was a kind old man who remembered Crowley’s face and drank alongside him, when he came in one night with a heavier mind than tea could soothe. These sacred spaces were like hearths to him. He warmed his hands by them and moved on, not looking for permanence but relieved when he encountered even an ounce of it. 

_'Thank you,'_ the old wood and cobblestones seemed to say, _'for existing here with me.'_

That is precisely why the old adage annoyed him so. Of course you can’t go home again, because ‘home’ is transient. And an old age means that you need plenty of homes to carry you; plenty of hearths to sustain you through the winter.

And, when things shatter, as things so often do, one has to be ready. A suitcase heart, packed and ready to board the train into oblivion. Crowley was nothing if not efficient.

Now he had a new home. It held many shades and secrets—hidden places among the shelves and floorboards. A closet lined with blankets for air raids. A windowsill filled with plants craning for a taste of the sun. And, in the back, a special wall compartment reserved for only the finest wines. 

Some of the best things on this earth are concealed, in want of a rainy day.

He found a home, too, in Aziraphale’s lap. When he’d straddle the angel’s thighs on the couch, a pair of cardigan-wrapped arms wound around his middle. Every rotation of the record ended like this. Jazz filling in the seconds as their gramophone spun on, forgotten. The kisses they traded ranged from soft to toe-curling.

In the early days, a sense of urgency had coloured every movement. The desperation of millennia causing them to chase joy for sport as they touched and collided. But now, as the morning light through bay windows grew more familiar than enchanting, so did they. Crowley traced the outline of Azirphale’s jaw with his fingers because he could. The angel pressed chaste kisses to his collarbone in return, because he could. For the first time in their sordid history, they moved slowly.

“You taste like wine,” Crowley told him, nosing at his neck.

“So do you,” Aziraphale agreed, his voice thick and raspy. He pulled Crowley in for another kiss, licking into his mouth.

Aziraphale cherished these moments, too. When he’d run his fingers through Crowley’s hair, scratching at his nape in the way that made him sigh against his lips. He loved the weight of Crowley against him, feeling every _ooh_ and _ah_ that hummed through his chest. He could read the freckles of his arms like brail, tracing the path back to Crowley— over arms and neck to that enchanting face. The one that shone against the blankets of the old sofa where they found each other on weekend mornings and on weekdays after three, when the building was theirs and theirs alone.

There was some merit, they found, to slowing their pace a little. It meant that they had time to fully take notice of one another. Crowley soon uncovered the sensitivity that lays beneath Aziraphale’s thighs. It made the angel gasp with pleasure whenever Crowley touched him there, planting open-mouthed kisses over the tiger-stripes of his inner thighs. The resultant bliss dragged the angel’s head deeper into the cushions each time. For Crowley, the pale skin of his wrists made his body sing with pleasure; they practically begged to be touched (It was the gentle things that killed him, every time). When Aziraphale brought his hand to his mouth and kissed it, watching Crowley’s reaction as he pressed his lips to Crowley’s wrist, it was almost too much. His heart ached with the softness of it. 

Crowley, Aziraphale noticed, closed his eyes at such tender things. He was always the first to look away, to cover his face and hide. Aziraphale hated it. He wanted to see _everything._ The way Crowley’s eyes dilated even in the darkness; the curve of his lips as they fell open in bliss. There were still so many things he wanted to discover…so many reactions he wished to pull from him.

Although he’d never admit to it, Crowley loved Aziraphale’s couch. Particularly, the mornings he’d wake up there with the angel beneath him and arms around him. He found Aziraphale’s warmth comforting, and listened keenly to the rhythm of his beating heart, which faltered only for good books, crepes, and _Crowley._ In these quiet moments, Crowley felt the most sure of himself. Curled up on Azirphale’s couch, peace came easily.

Their bed was fine, too, although it wasn’t claustrophobic enough for Crowley’s taste. He never was a fan of waking up alone. On mornings when Aziraphale would rise early and take to reading in the shop, or when Crowley tossed and turned well into the morning, there was only him and the comforter. Luckily, the instinctual panic never lasted long, since Aziraphale always left him a note.

_Off to the shops, back soon. xxx_

_Sleep well, dearest. Back soon._

‘Soon’ could range from minutes to hours. It had no need to be specific— the word itself was a promise.

Aziraphale’s hand always hesitated at the bottom of the page, tracing out _I love you_ in the air without ever touching the ink to paper. _It was obvious, wasn’t it? How he felt?_ He hoped so. He felt quite certain that they lingered longer than friendship or even desire allowed. He had been quoting poetry (and being teased mercilessly for it) more than he ever had been before. But something in Crowley’s eyes looked like a warning, so the notes never went on for too long.

Still, even in their filtered, sanitized form, the notes helped. They gave him something to hold onto beside his own anxiety, and he was grateful. These days were filled with small mercies.

The nights, however, were another matter entirely. When the nights were unbearable; when hell rained down from on high and sirens thrummed through closed windows; Crowley laid himself in Aziraphale’s lap once more. He let the angel card his fingers through his hair, grounding him. When Aziraphale pressed a kiss to his temple, crouching over the demon like a patient soldier, keeping watch, he pretended not to notice. He kept his eyes empty and his head emptier, thinking only of the hands on him and the body beneath, the rest of the world little more than a distant hum. 

He refused to fall apart.

He had been doing a lot of refusing, lately. He’d had to feel brave a great deal more than he’d wanted to. The air raids were increasing. Every night as he readied for bed, Crowley wondered whether fear was waiting for him on the other side of the hour. Whether his eyes would open in the dark to the sounds of falling sky. Aziraphale soon moved a stack of books into the bedroom in silent solidarity. His message was clear: on those nights, Crowley would not sleep alone.

The angel was watching him closely, although he pretended not to be. Sometimes he blamed it on the unfinished portrait (they were taking their time, with that one).

 _“I need some time to study you, Crowley.”_ He’d say, looking away. _“No great deed was ever accomplished overnight.”_

But Crowley knew better. Aziraphale watched him because he knew the truth. He knew that Crowley was a broken, fragile thing. Somedays, he felt like his houseplants— he too shivered against the world and needed attention to grow. (And he got so much of it, now…) But too much sun and the plants will start to wither. Sunspots would sprout among the green until the sun-blessed plant became a spoiled, rotten looking thing. Imperfection writ large. 

Crowley had many, many sunspots. Gaping holes between his ribs and in his heart. He’d always known this. He was a demon, after all. He was never meant to be whole. Even with all talk of _sides_ left firmly in the past, he couldn’t shake the notion so easily. Crowley accepted Aziraphale’s unrelenting kindness but had only his own imperfections to give in return. His grumpy mornings and quick retorts came easily. And every instance of the angel’s shameless adoration rendered him speechless and pained, burrowing into whatever surface was available. He never voiced even half of the kindnesses in his mind, and when he did they hurt him. Crowley wasn’t meant for such a halcyon existence.

Cuts and bruises were his first language and tenderness his second. The latter one was always giving him trouble.

It made him anxious, the idea that he and his bones were hollowed out and ragged. And the way Aziraphale doted on him…it was as if he already knew. 

Angles only come when your soul is on its knees.

“Crowley?” The angel watched him from the archway in the kitchen.

9am and the morning was already grating on them both. After a sleepless night punctuated by poems and a litany of little anxieties, Aziraphale had crossed a dangerous barrier. Crowley had been seated on the edge of the bed, his eyeliner smudged and his hands wringing out the bedsheets, when Aziraphale came to him. He’d handed him a cup of tea with a peculiar look in his eye, and Crowley thought he might say it. Tell him he loved him. But Aziraphale was much too clever to make such a grievous error. Instead, he’d simply kissed him, and whispered, “I adore you, you know.” 

Those five words only served to confirm an emerging hypothesis in Crowley’s mind: that Aziraphale didn't love him, he pitied him. _That_ was why he stuck so close to him, bringing him tea and kissing him back. He was an angel, helping the fallen. Helping Crowley in his time of need (which was always). He was doing a fine job of it, too. He’d even had Crowley believing him, for a while. But now, he was beginning to have his doubts.

They found him often, these doubts. Their haunting was far more sincere than any ghost could manage. His doubts followed him into bed at night, into the shower…reminding him of his true nature. He could evade them for a while by filling his days with travel and distraction and Aziraphale. But then they would come and sit in the room with him and he would remember, _‘oh, I’m empty, aren’t I?’_

No one could love something so empty, even an angel.

The shadowy thoughts had found him, again.

Crowley toyed with his cup and saucer. He raised it to his lips, pretending to finish off the empty cup. He hadn’t even realized he’d taken Aziraphale’s. The dainty blue-and-white stripes along the handle didn’t suit his black attire at all. “What is it, angel?”

“I— I’m just letting you know that I’m going out for a walk. I thought I might pop over to Oxford Street to see the damage.”

It had been a rough go, the night before. They’d listened from the closet into the early hours of the morning. Knowing that they would be spared did little to assuage the guilt for their good fortune.

Crowley sighed, nearly dropping the cup against its saucer. “I’ll go with you.”

“Oh, no, you really don’t have to my—”

“Do you not want me to go?” 

Aziraphale’s hands flew up defensively. “Of course not, Crowley, I only meant that you can stay here and get some rest, if you’d like. I know that you—”

“That I what?” He spat. He felt a pang of guilt immediately at Aziraphale’s pained expression, but his skin felt like it was on fire and he couldn’t control the flames. Fire was catching.

“That you’ve had a hard week, that’s all.”

Crowley leapt from his chair, reaching for his scarf and coat. “Haven’t we all?”

The damage was more severe than they’d thought. Windows blown out all down the street, as well as some collapsed roofs. Assembly lines of men, women, and children passed bricks and loose stones, clearing out the rubble. No one spoke except to give orders. On the corner, the remains of a bookstore (once a competitor for Aziraphale’s humble shop) were scattered in the road. A woman sat atop the bricks in trousers and a jacket, reading.

Crowley nodded in her direction. 

The sorry sight elicited a sad hum from Aziraphale. “I suppose people need stories now more than ever.”

A trio of small children darted out in front of them, making Crowley jump. They pushed passed him as though he were invisible. He watched as they crossed the street in tandem and rejoined their parents at the toppled doorway of what had been a department store only yesterday.

“Useless, isn’t it?” Crowley remarked, tugging his scarf tighter around his neck. “When we could have avoided all this with a simple miracle.”

The orders from Head Office had been quite clear: for the time being, the humans were on their own. 

_“Our official position,”_ Gabriel had said, straightening his tie, _“is that the humans need to sort out their little war on their own terms. Thus, we are to dispense with all miracles until instructed otherwise.”_

Hastur had expressed a similar sentiment to Crowley, only with comparatively poor grammar.

“I quite agree; I hate to see such wasteful destruction,” Aziraphale commented, one eye on the distant reader. “I think I’ll come back later; change into something less formal and help them out.”

Crowley cocked an eyebrow. “You own clothing that isn’t formal?”

“Well, nothing so drastic as _casual wear.”_ He uttered the vile phrase with a fair amount of revulsion. “But something old, perhaps.”

Crowley hummed in approval, focusing on the weight of Azirphale’s arm in his. He still felt hazy from his sleepless night, and the rubble kept shifting in and out of focus. The pit in his stomach had been steadily growing since dawn and he felt like the slightest breeze could throw him to the ground. It was all he could do to keep walking, grateful for the black glasses on his nose and the warm body beside him.

Aziraphale would have noticed his reticence, were it not for the state of the bookshop before them. He too was experiencing a haunting. He was haunted by the notion that one snap of his fingers could set the place to right, but Heaven had another plan in mind. It felt heartless to think that this particular brand of suffering had been _ordained._

His hand tightened around Crowley’s arm. He needed a distraction. “Am I to suppose that you’ll be receiving a commendation for this one, dear boy?”

“Commendation?”

“Well…yes.” He said, coursing his eyes over the exposed foundations. “You told me once that you exaggerate, sometimes; take credit…”

Crowley scoffed, his eyes filling with tears. _‘Is this how you see me?’_ He wanted to scream. _‘Do you blame me for the gaping hole in my chest? Can you see it too?’_

But he said none of those things. Instead, Crowley’s mouth fell into a hard, thin line. He yanked his arm free and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Not for this one.”

The angel blinked in surprise. “Forgive me, I only thought that—”

“—That I’d exploit the situation to my favour? You know Hell is taking a step back.”

“From miracles, yes.”

“From everything, angel.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened as he nodded. “Oh. I didn’t know.”

“Well, now you do.”

_“Crowley.”_

“You know, not everything bad that happens is our fault.” He kicked himself as he said it. _Why did he feel the need to defend Hell, of all things?_ Perhaps because it too was a part of him.

As a very astute author would later write, ‘Hell is something you carry around with you. Not somewhere you go.’ 

But, said author would not be born for another 19 years, so for now, Crowley was on his own.

“I didn’t say that it was.”

“You thought it, though.” He shot Aziraphale a look that put him on the back-foot, literally. “That was enough.”

Aziraphale hadn’t meant to be cutting but Crowley couldn’t help himself. He’d been thinking about it for days— the word ‘damned.’ It comes from the Latin, _damnatus,_ meaning ‘hateful,’ ‘damned,’ or ‘abandoned.’ That last definition really sticks to the skin. It had taken up a residence between Crowley’s ribs centuries ago. The word _damned_ seems so formal. Just a biblical word that wove its way into common language. A curse word on everyone’s tongue at the slightest inconvenience. But _abandoned_ …that stung. Sure, he was damned, and he recognized hate in himself and in others, but abandonment was something else entirely. Once you’ve been abandoned even once, it’s difficult not to expect it around every corner.

And that’s just what he was— the sort of thing you leave behind when you’re through with it. And it wouldn’t be long before Aziraphale, who studied him day and night for a bloody portrait, would see his true nature. And, as dictated by fate, Aziraphale would leave and take Heaven with him.

His thoughts paralyzed him the whole way home. The jingle of Aziraphale’s keys in the lock pulled him back from the brink of complete dissociation.

The sound of the door closing broke the silence between them.

“I’ve upset you,” Aziraphale commented, hanging his coat by the door. He reached out to take Crowley’s as well, but the demon only shook his head, unwilling to move. “Please, my dear, say _something.”_

Crowley simply adjusted his glasses and coughed to himself. The muscles in his chest were tense and sore. “What would you like me to say?”

“I’m quite sure I wouldn’t know. But I’ve hurt you, and I think you know why.”

Crowley stared passed him. He desperately did not want to be having this conversation. He didn’t know how long he’d be able to speak before saying something he’d regret. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Aziraphale’s shoulders fell. “We both know that isn’t true.”

“Well…wh—why would I blame you? Huh? You only said what you think. What we both know to be true.”

“I don’t und—”

“That I’m evil or damned or whatever it is your lot are calling it these days. Admit it, you can see it! I can’t even get through a bloody air raid without— nngk.” His speech melted away to nothing as he fought to hold back the tide within him.

“But I don’t _blame_ you for that, Crowley! I’m happy to help you…”

“But maybe you shouldn’t be.”

Aziraphale took a step backwards, nearly knocking over a stack of novels. “I beg your pardon?”

Crowley sighed, attempting to gather his thoughts. Everything was moving too fast now and he was straining to keep up. “I’m a demon, Aziraphale. I am, by definition, a lost cause.”

“I won’t hear another word of this. Crowley, you are so much more than a demon. You’re a writer, a…a historian—”

“—A historian; that’s right. I write about politics…revolutions…things falling apart. Watching human events like raindrops on a windowsill as they crash into one another, racing to the bottom. It’s all just destruction. Destruction interests me, alright? And why wouldn’t it?”

“Crowley—”

“And what does that say about me, do you think?” His arms leapt from his sides. “Huh? Aziraphale? What does that tell you?”

“Please don’t shout; Crowley, you’re scaring me…”

“It means that I’m destroyed. I’ve been destroyed”

“My dear…”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what? I don’t understand—” Aziraphale felt desperate, now. He kept opening and closing his mouth but little came of it.

“Don’t call me dear, or love, or any of that other nonsense.”

“You think it’s nonsense?” The angel staggered back, as though he’d been struck. The books fell from the table. He didn’t notice.

“Not it— me. You say these words like they’re _limitless._ Like they make up for the cracks but they don’t. You paint beautiful pictures because that is the luxury you have.” 

Crowley was really flying now. Arms and legs and passion lashing out at the empty bookshop. “You’re an _angel._ And you see the world through that lens but you don’t know.”

“You’re right,” Aziraphale held his hands at his waist, holding himself together. “I don’t understand. I don’t know what it is to fall, Crowley. I can’t imagine it. But that is why you must _tell_ me.” 

Crowley shook his head. 

Aziraphale stared at the unfinished canvas that leaned against his desk— the hair around the shoulders, the face still a stretch of ill-defined skin tone. Today was supposed to be the day he’d paint his eyes. 

“I thought you liked the way I see you.”

“I do,” Crowley whispered, “it’s a very flattering lie.”

 _“No.”_ Aziraphale said, stepping forward. His eyes were on fire and all at once Crowley remembered Aziraphale the Principality, Guardian of the Eastern Gate. His face looked like thunder. It could level empires. “You do not get to stand there and tell me that my perception of you is a lie. I won’t hear it.”

A rueful smile crossed Crowley’s face. “What happened to Socrates? ‘The only thing I know for sure is that I know nothing.’”

Aziraphale laughed— a strangled puff of air. “I used to believe in that old philosophy. Now, I know better. Now, I know _you.”_

“Pity,” said Crowley, adjusting his sunglasses, “you move on just as I’m starting to catch up.”

The slam of the door behind him was loud and decisive.

Aziraphale, alone again, cursed the long row of succulents that lined the window sill. 

They reminded him of a garden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading!💜💜 My apologies for both the late update, and the Angst you just read through. Yikes! 
> 
> In case you are interested, a few nerdy things:
> 
> 1) The chapter title "Damnatum" is the singular neuter form of the Latin "damnatus," which honours Crowley's gender fluid status in this fic. 
> 
> 2) The image of the woman reading atop the rubble after a night of bombing is a reference to a historic photograph of a young boy which can be found here:  
> https://www.soolide.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/06/Boy-reading.jpg
> 
> 3) The astute author referenced in this chapter is (obviously) Neil Gaiman. 💜


	10. Ithaca At Last

He left again. 

Crowley had left him again.

Light streamed through the bay window as a hallelujah chorus of _he left you, he left you, he left you,_ played over and over in Aziraphale’s mind.

 _He will come back this time,_ he told himself. They had come so far, hadn’t they? He’d seen more of Crowley in the past month than he had in centuries. They’d argued and made up and cooked together in the kitchen when they felt like staying in. They’d read Homer together under the blankets of the backroom sofa and argued over their favourite scenes. These things don’t happen by accident. 

Do they?

The wrinkled pages were still curled upon the coffee table where the book had been abandoned only days before.

Aziraphale loved the _Iliad._ He adored the love that flowed through it even as the mortals suffered. He liked that it was a song, not a history. Singing the pain transfigured it in some essential way. Humans were always doing that— bleeding out and singing about it. Meanwhile the gods did nothing. They watched with curiosity from on high as the mortals loved and lived and died. It felt a lot like Heaven, the way they watched the little people dancing below, tied down by the dual weights of love and duty that bloodless gods could never begin to imagine. The all-or-nothing pain of earthly existence.

Crowley, on the other hand, was homesick. And the homesick always find safe port in the _Odyssey._ Though he would never dare confess to it, Aziraphale knew that Crowley fancied himself an Odysseus. 

“But how can you say Odysseus is faultless?” Aziraphale asked him from over the lip of his coffee cup. “Even after what he did at _Troy?”_

“I didn’t say he was faultless, angel. I said he was forgivable. There’s a difference.” Crowley reached over with his fork, taking a stab at the watermelon on Aziraphale’s plate which he had claimed he wanted ‘no part of’ only minutes before. “All he wanted to do was go home, and he did it. How many of the other stuffy heroes can say that?”

The kisses Crowley gave in between chapters always felt different— stronger. Like he had been the one away to sea for years and Aziraphale was his lover and the ground beneath his feet all at once. The solid earth of Ithaca.

And that was precisely what Aziraphale thought they’d been doing all this time; building a home, here. The plants on the windowsill, the black dresses and overcoats in the closet, next to his. A cup that only Crowley could use, because a non-black teacup in his hands would be demonic sacrilege. Aziraphale’s little haven was no longer his. It was Ithaca. 

Apparently, it was also a garden; ephemeral.

If Crowley really did love homecomings so much, then why did he have to abandon his? He was no Odysseus, called away to sea by a war. No; he had acted alone and left of his own volition.

But, Aziraphale reasoned, that did not necessarily mean that there wasn’t a battle raging. Crowley was a demon, and Aziraphale knew well from their sordid history that for those who feel deeply, battlefields are seldom external.

Aziraphale retreated into their bedroom. He stopped at the edge of the opened closet, debating whether or not to lay down on the blankets and hide. He could always wait until the battle had been won or lost, when Crowley would either be banging at his door or a thousand miles away. He could do that. The ages had made him a patient man. He could wait, for a little while longer.

Even so, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. The chaos of Crowley’s leaving held him by the wrists. Chaos is chronic— it requires a united front.

And he was Crowley’s ally. He couldn’t leave him at the mercy of himself. Allies stick together even on the days when the only thing left to defeat is history itself. History is a haunting. It comes for us all, eventually.

By doing nothing, he would add another chapter to their chronicle of missteps. A choice loomed before him. He could either sit on the floor of the closet in the company of ghosts, or he could leave and break the pattern. 

For once, he refused to leave or be left.

Instead, he took a walk.

He walked through St. James’ Park, wearing Crowley’s scarf. The temperature had dropped significantly since breakfast; if he should find the demon, he would likely find him cold, and he knew well his aversion to the light-coloured patterns of Aziraphale’s wardrobe. 

From the park, he ventured the British Museum. Or rather, he tried to. The pristine gates were barred to guests; the fear of future bombings compelling the curators to shuttle their collection into deep storage.

 _Preposterous,_ Aziraphale thought, clutching Crowley’s scarf to his chest. _In what world is the historian not loitering in a museum?_

It’s disappointing how impervious the world is to metaphor, sometimes.

Aziraphale walked until he could walk no further. He had no miracles at his disposal by which he might rouse his strength, nor were his fine (or, according to Crowley, _pretentious_ ) shoes up to the task. Besides, the sky was already beginning to grow dark. Citizens were already covering their windows, hunkering down for the long night ahead. The witching hour would soon be upon them. Though no one spoke the words aloud, passersby exchanged in glances the same tired question: _would the Germans be back tonight?_

He had to get back to the shop before Crowley did; he just had to. 

Sadly, his wish was soon granted. He returned to find the bookshop in darkness. The stack of books remained toppled on the floor from their earlier argument, and Crowley’s cup still sat at the kitchen table, coffee-stained and abandoned. His coat was still missing from the rack.

He hadn’t come home. Curfew was only an hour away and still Crowley had yet to come home.

Aziraphale’s mind was crowded with Egypt and Russia and eyeliner and leather journals; years upon years of missteps and the pit in the bottom of his stomach reminding him that it would always end like this. 

More than the weight of rejection, Aziraphale was plagued by the idea that Crowley was out there in the darkness without a candle to lighten his way or his thoughts. And it had been his fault— Crowley’s departure was the penance for his carelessness.

If Crowley never came back, Aziraphale would have no one but himself to blame.

“Crowley will be _fine,”_ he told the empty room. “Just tickety-boo. He’s been taking care of himself for centuries. I’m certain he’ll be back soon.”

Whether or not the room found his words convincing, Aziraphale didn’t know. But he had his doubts.

As calmly as he could, he lit a candle near the doorway, and another one beside his reading chair, which he repositioned to face the unlocked door.

Crowley would not return to darkness, not on his watch.

He made a pot of tea, picked up and placed down his copy of the _Iliad_ exactly seven times, and waited.

Aziraphale had never been able to sleep until recently. In the past, he’d spent his nights reading and drinking tea and thinking very quietly. He hadn’t much need of anything more.

Crowley was that something more, yet Aziraphale didn’t want to sleep when Crowley was around, either. He mostly wanted to stare and reach out and touch. But Crowley made a convincing case. If they slept together, then they would awaken together. Crowley would lay his body against his and Aziraphale would let his tea run cold and forget what page he was on or what book could possibly be more enlightening than the soothing softness of skin-upon-skin. He would let Crowley lull him to sleep; the feeling of curled hair atop his chest spoke volumes. Shakespeare would have killed for silences like these. They echoed louder than any soliloquy or tragic confession.

Without him here, Aziraphale could not bring himself to read or drink tea in silence. The tea grew tepid beside him as he stared at the door, waiting. 

The silence was deafening.

By ten a.m., Aziraphale had resigned himself to the reality of his situation. Crowley had left him. And this time, it felt definitive.

With a sigh, he dawned the oldest clothes he could find, and set out for Oxford Street to help with the reconstruction. He was an angel, after all. He might as well do some good.

The woman in the dilapidated bookshop had been on his mind since he’d seen her— the courageous way she’d sat reading atop the rubble. If anyone deserved a helping hand, he thought, it must be her.

It shocked him, the state of her shop. By the time he’d arrived, she was already hard at work, instructing a team of bricklayers who were in the process of rebuilding the east wall of her shop. Even at 10:30 in the morning the workmen’s clothes were already soiled— they had been here for sometime.

“My, you do work fast,” he told her, offering her the best smile of which he was capable. 

“Indeed,” she said, pausing to wipe her brow. “I’m lucky to have any help at all. It’s usually the wealthier tenants that get repairs done first. You’ll have to thank your friend for me.”

Aziraphale wavered. “Who? Do you mean Crowley?”

She nodded, though her eyes seemed unsure. “I think that was his name. Always wearing black, kind of sad looking? I saw him with you yesterday. He came back yesterday afternoon— offered to pay for the whole thing. I could hardly believe it. My store’s been operating on charity and and luck since the bloody war started. And here he is offering to save it.” She shook her head. “It was like a miracle.” 

Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile. Even when he was hurt, Crowley knew how to give. “I’m so very glad for you. Um, by the way, my friend didn’t happen to tell you where he might be going, did he?”

“He said something about Dover, actually. That he was due for a vacation.”

And that was all Aziraphale had needed to hear.

In his mind, he’d already purchased his train ticket.

As it turns out, tourism in Dover had hardly been slowed down by the war at all. All those returning to England for leave were met at the port by lovers and family members, and they managed to fill up all of the finest hotels for the weekend by the time Aziraphale arrived. 

“Well, do you happen to know whether any of the other hotels might have an opening?” He asked the attendant, who was clearly less than interested in helping him.

She sighed. “Try the Cyprus Inn, by the cliffs. It’s run down— practically ancient, so hardly anyone goes there anymore.”

A dramatic, ancient dwelling by the white cliffs. Of course he would be there. Where else could he be? 

Aziraphale made his way through the tall grass, clambering over blunt rock formations and uncut thickets. The wind tore at his jacket as he ventured further from civilization, and the thundering waves below smothered the sound of his feet upon the rocks. Ahead of him, the ceaseless waves beat on, reminding him that he was far from being the only timeless thing.

Ahead of him, a lone, black stone stood out against the greenery of a sturdy oak tree. Its red hair shone like a beacon. Aziraphale’s rage was somewhat lessened by the solitude of a single black smudge against a blue and emerald canvas.

Steeling himself, the angel called out to him. “So, this is your new home then, is it?”

Although Crowley would never admit it under even the greatest duress, his heart beat faster as Aziraphale approached. 

A part of him had always wanted to be found.

Crowley shrugged, eyes still drawn to the sea. His glasses sat high on his nose, which Aziraphale took as a definitively bad sign. “How’d you know where to find me?”

“Your good deed has a voice, you know.”

Crowley groaned, scrubbing a hand down his face. His back was so rigid Aziraphale felt certain it must have hurt.

“I was so worried about you, Crowley. You can’t imagine.”

“I know, I—”

“I wasn’t finished.” 

“I— er, ‘m sorry.” He floundered impotently.

 _Really?_ He scolded himself. _You’ve been having imaginary arguments with the angel since noon and this is what you come out with?_

“Right.” Aziraphale sat down next to the tree, far enough away that Crowley could not reach him even if he wanted to. He fixed his eyes on the distant waves, watching them crest and fall until his heart evened out again. The anger that had sat beside him on the train was swiftly giving way to tears. “I waited all night for you to come home. I couldn’t even leave the lights on for you what with all the air raids, so I sat by the candle and waited. I just kept thinking that if there were to be an air raid and you were out there somewhere…”

A single tear escaped Aziraphale’s eye and Crowley wished he didn’t exist. “I’m so sorry, angel.”

“I know.” He flashed an elusive smile. “But it hurt, just the same.”

Aziraphale wanted so badly to pull him into a hug— to feel Crowley’s arms curl around him again as they had so many times before. But there was an ocean between them now. “I can’t do this again, Crowley. I couldn’t bear it.”

Crowley nodded, much too sober for the looseness of his limbs as he tapped his foot against the ground. He must have been doing that a lot— his pant leg was damp and smudged. “I can come and get my things tomorrow, if you’d like. I’d do it now, but I don’t think that I could get back before—”

“Who said anything about you leaving?”

He frowned. “Did you not just say that you couldn’t do this?”

“Again, Crowley! I said that I won’t accept it _again._ I do have more faith in you than that, you know.”

The demon said nothing. He pretended to watch the waves even as Aziraphale could hear his mind working beside him on the ground. Always thinking and overanalyzing. Ever the historian, even in the present. 

“So what have you been doing out here, hmm?”

He shrugged. “Going for walks, mostly. Got a room at the inn up the road. It’s nice. Quiet.”

“You hate quiet.”

“Ugh, more than _anything.”_

Aziraphale folded his hands in his lap, trying hard not to fidget. “So why are you here, then?”

“Needed to get away from myself.” He laughed humourlessly, tossing a stone into the grass in front of him. “But I guess I followed me here.”

“Why do you…”

“Sometimes it’s just a lot.” Crowley sat up straighter, tugging his winter coat closer around his chest. It made Aziraphale want to reach out and wrap his scarf around him, the one he’d worn for precisely that purpose, but he did no such thing. “I get these thoughts sometimes…they’re very loud.”

“What sort of thoughts?”

“Do I really have to say it?”

“My dear boy, you had me pacing the shop worrying that you’d given yourself a panic-induced heart attack somewhere, so yes, I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist.”

He sighed. Aziraphale’s request was torturous. Fair, but torturous. “Thoughts like…I’m no good for any of this. For this life that I have. For you.”

“For me?”

“Yeah. ‘ feel like maybe I’m… I don’t know.”

“No, go on. Say it.”

“That I’m going to ruin things with you.” He told the rocks and the grass, not Aziraphale.

“Because you’re a demon, you mean?”

“Yeah. And also because I’m me.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale followed his empty gaze, over the edge of the farthest cliff. “I see.” 

_So,_ Aziraphale thought, _the man who saves bookshops and other people cannot save himself._

“And how long have you been having these…thoughts?”

“I don’t know?” He whispered. “Maybe always?”

“Always,” Aziraphale repeated, closing his eyes. He burned with regret for every comment he ever made about Heaven or Hell. It killed him, knowing he had an even greater hand in Crowley’s despondency. “I had no idea they were so constant. How could I not have noticed?”

“Because I didn’t want you to.” Crowley looked at him, if only for a second. “Besides, it’s easier to forget with you.”

“But not entirely?”

“Not entirely.”

“And I went and ruined everything.”

“No, come on, angel, you didn’t—”

“—But I _did._ You must know that I didn’t mean it Crowley; I wasn’t thinking. I know you to be good and unselfish. I never should have said those things.”

The demon remained silent. He plucked a smooth grey stone from the earth, turning it over in his palm as he spoke. “I’ve been thinking recently, about art.”

Aziraphale blinked in surprise. “Art?”

He nodded. “It shocked me, you know; you saying that you wanted to paint me. You said it so seriously, too. Like you’d been thinking about it for a while.”

“Well, I had been.”

“You’re lucky, you know. To trust yourself enough to show me.”

Aziraphale felt that he was a mile behind, still sprinting though the brush to catch up. “I’m not sure that I follow you, my dear.”

“Well…art is all about the artist, isn’t it? I mean, that’s why I’ve never written anything. Well, published anything. I write a lot. Always have. But no matter what I talk about— historiography or mine— I can’t show anyone. I could have had a job at the Lyceum if I’d been able to share my own work.”

Aziraphale frowned. “So why didn’t you?”

“Because it’s my work, I suppose. It’s like…I’m in there. On the page. And maybe I don’t want anyone to know me.”

“And yet you’d have your portrait painted.”

“Well, yes,” he said, turning. “By _you._ Because that painting isn’t of me; not really. It’s your idea of me. And that I can tolerate.”

“My dear, that sounds like a very lonely way to live.”

He replied in a heartbeat. “It is.”

“You really can get used to anything, I suppose.”

“Not to you,” Crowley insisted. He scooted closer until their shoulders were touching. He nudged Aziraphale’s shoulder with his own. “‘ see something new every time.”

“Hardly,” Aziraphale scoffed. “I feel like centuries have passed and I’ve stayed the same.”

“Maybe in some ways. You’re still the pretentious bastard you were in Rome. In _France._ Always dressing up and spewing formalities. But your smile is always different.”

“My _smile_ is?”

“Well, yeah. It changes a lot. It’s soft in the mornings and is never far away. It’s sad sometimes, when you think about Heaven or are reading one of your tragedies. My favourite is when you read to me and you go all cozy around the eyes.”

“My dear, that might be the sweetest thing you’ve ever—”

“—yes, yes,” he muttered. “No need going on about it.”

Aziraphale looked at him sideways as Crowley watched the ocean. A sharp vein was raised at his temple. He still existed elsewhere. “Do you know what you are, Crowley?”

“If you dare say nice, Aziraphale, I swear I’ll—”

“—You’re adaptable; resilient. You hated the past, so you studied hard until you mastered it. You even taught yourself to love it. To worship it. They broke your wings so you learned to fly in a Bentley. And even after I ruined things in St. Petersburg and you stormed off, you still had the courage to come and find me again. To save me, even. And I think that we might be suffering now because we’ve gotten used to it.”

“Used to what?”

“Oh, the struggle, I suppose. All this coming and going like clouds in each other’s lives.” He reached for his hand and sighed with relief when the demon took it, entwining their fingers. “I think it’s time we get used to something that isn’t sharp, wouldn’t you agree?”

Crowley managed a nod. The eyes behind his sunglasses began to shimmer. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Anything.”

He pulled his hand free of Aziraphale’s and shifted to sit in front of him; close enough to look him head on without touching him. “If…if things had been different…do you think that you— that _I…”_

“You’re going to need to be more specific, dear boy.”

“If I were— you know— not myself…”

“You mean, if you weren’t a demon?”

Crowley nodded. “Would you still want me around?”

“Well, it isn’t your nature that defines you, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

“No, I mean…if I were an angel, like you…would you…”

His meaning was clear: If the universe had been more hospitable to those suffering within it—if gods came down from their mountaintops to convene with us—would you still love me the same?

“Crowley,” the angel whispered, taking up his hand once more, “I have no insight into the parallel lives that we might have lived in a kinder sphere of existence, but if you’re asking me if I would still care about you, the only answer I can come up with is a resounding _yes._ You would still be you, at heart, and I cannot imagine a scenario in which I wouldn’t want you near me.”

“‘ might have found each other sooner,” he sniffed, “if things were different. If _I_ was different.”

“Perhaps,” Aziraphale conceded. He swiped a thumb over Crowley’s wrist, in an attempt to ease the clenched fist he cradled in his hand. “But this is the life we have, and you must know that I can’t bear to imagine it changing. Not now. Now that I…”

_Now that I know the depths of my love for you._

Crowley’s head sank lower and Aziraphale tugged on his hand. “Come here, dear one.”

Crowley crossed the distance between them with an unsteady breath and Aziraphale pulled him to his chest. He dragged his right hand through his hair steadily and deliberately as Crowley learned to breathe again. His chest shook though no sound emerged, as though the gale winds were passing through him. Aziraphale simply waited, holding him close.

“You’ve got to stop torturing yourself, my darling.”

“I know.” He sniffed. “I do know that.”

“That’s good. I’ve seen you believe in little miseries for years; centuries, even. You’d spent so long believing yourself cruel and wicked and you never stopped to question your own logic.”

His left hand entwined with Crowley’s. “ And I know that you’d rather I didn’t say it…”

“Aziraphale—” He struggled to look up at him, his glasses sliding farther down his nose. 

“—I understand, I do. So I won’t; at least, not directly. But you must be kinder to yourself.” He traced his nails over the arch of Crowley’s jaw, scratching at his stubble, grounding him. “Don’t let me love you all by myself.”

There are moments in literature where a light is switched on, and the path may be seen. When monsters are slain and towns set free. When victory is shouted on high in a voice strong enough that no one can dare say otherwise. Aziraphale pressed a kiss to the demon’s temple, and it felt the same way. 

In the 13th century, the Persian poet Rumi said: ‘Beyond right and wrong, there is a field. I’ll meet you there.’

Beyond the field, there are cliffs. They, too, bear witness.

“You know that I’m never going to leave you again, right?” Aziraphale said, his own eyes filling with tears. “That I’m incapable of it, now?” 

Crowley’s arms around him tightened, and he took that for a ‘yes.’ 

“You’re in Ithaca now, love. You just need to come home.”

“I want to come home,” Crowley breathed, taking Aziraphale’s face in his hands. He pressed a kiss to his lips that was scandalous and tender all at once. “Please, let me come home.”

“We can leave after the weekend, if you’d like. It feels a bit like a vacation, having you here.” 

Crowley pressed impossibly closer to Aziraphale, his fingers tracing circles on his chest. 

Their little bed was small and tacky, quilt-covered and warm. The sort of place that Aziraphale treasured for its quaintness while Crowley yearned for his silk sheets back at the bookshop. For the purposes of their journey, however, it was perfect. With its crowded wallpaper and framed artwork that neither of them liked, it felt like a liminal space; a haven on the side of a very long road. The ideal place to find yourself. Or someone else.

“It is a bit like a vacation, isn’t it?” Aziraphale beamed, revelling in the domesticity of it all. The two of them in a crowded inn in Dover. He never could have imagined it. “Perhaps we can be tourists tomorrow? The hotel clerk downstairs was telling me about a lovely little bookshop just on the corner of—”

Crowley laughed; properly, this time. It reverberated through Aziraphale’s chest, making him smile. “I knew you’d get there eventually.”

Aziraphale hummed, running a hand through Crowley’s hair. He could hear the smile without looking for it. “I always do, don’t I?”

“We can go back on Monday, if you’d like. Always nice to go home after some time away.”

Aziraphale’s heart swelled at the word _home,_ but he said nothing. 

“That portrait isn’t going to paint itself.”

Aziraphale cocked an eyebrow. “So you’d like me to finish it, then?”

“Of course.” Crowley swiped a hand over Aziraphale’s knuckles before bringing his hand to his mouth. He pressed a kiss into his palm, lingering longer than was strictly necessary. “It’s like my name. I hate the way it sounds, but when you say it, I don’t mind. It doesn’t bother me.”

Aziraphale frowned as he watched the simple action. Crowley was the picture of dedication to everything and everyone apart from himself. “I hate that you think these things.”

“So do I.” He admitted. “Keep painting, though, and I might forget that I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading! <3
> 
> I have no explanation for this and I apologize for nothing. The cuteness levels are off the charts with these two and I cannot handle it. This is by far the most tender thing I've ever written. (But we all deserve So Much softness right now tbh)
> 
> Enjoy :D


	11. Homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter comes with a song: Black Flies, by Ben Howard. Listen here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5NPA__ra9uY 
> 
> _Maybe you were the ocean,_  
>  _When I was just a stone..._

“Angel.”

Aziraphale sniffed, burrowing deeper into the pillow. Rosy-fingered Dawn had come for them at last, bestowing warm luminance upon the floral curtains and all that they concealed within. From Crowley’s vantage-point, the light seemed to frame Aziraphale from behind. It shone through his frosty blond hair to form a natural morning halo.

It was maddening, sometimes, the way poetry seemed to find him wherever he was.

“I know that you can hear me.” 

Although Aziraphale refused to open his eyes, he knew he’d heard a smile in there, somewhere.

“Don’t make me do the thing.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows rose in mock-surprise. “And what _thing_ might that be?”

The hand on his chest patted him twice as the demon leaned closer. Aziraphale waited as Crowley sighed dramatically before pressing a flurry of butterfly kisses to the angel’s cheek.

Aziraphale’s satisfied hum gave way to a laugh as he placed a gentle hand on Crowley’s neck, stroking the length of it.

“Alright, you got what you wanted, angel. Now look at me, would you?”

Aziraphale rubbed his eyes, opening them to the room and the sunlight and Crowley. “I certainly will.”

“Hnnng,” Crowley replied, eloquently. “It’s far too early for you and your sentimentalities.”

“I’m certain…” he pulled Crowley closer; “that I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

Aziraphale was about to kiss him. His hand rested between neck and shoulder and it would only take one movement, but Crowley beat him to it. He leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together on the pillow. Aziraphale watched, spellbound, as Crowley’s amber eyes flickered shut, leaving him with only freckles and lashes. The demon exhaled a warm puff of air that ghosted over Aziraphale’s lips, sending a shiver down his spine.

“Are you alright, dearest?”

Crowley nodded against him before pulling back; opening his eyes. “Yes. Definitely, yes.”

“Good.” He wove a finger through Crowley’s fringe, tucking it back. “I’m glad.”

Crowley studied him like a maths equation (though, with a touch of fondness that has seldom been shown to mathematics since Pythagoras). “Can I kiss you?”

Aziraphale beamed, remembering. “You don’t have to ask it.”

Crowley leaned into him slowly, savouring the seconds. He wove his hands into Aziraphale’s hair as he pressed their lips together. It was tentative, at first. The weight of their conversation the night before seemed to sit in the room with them, more like a blessing than a ghost. Aziraphale had practically told Crowley that he _loved_ him, and Crowley hadn’t said it back.

It was alright, though; he’d never been very good with words. He was keen to leave them to Aziraphale most of the time. Beauty came easily to the angel, and he trusted him to handle those tender words with the grace of a composer. 

No, words did not come easily to Crowley— he would have to _show_ Aziraphale instead.

He set to unbuttoning Aziraphale’s pyjamas, pausing now and then to press a kiss to his lips. The temperature had dropped the night before, driving them both to burrow under the covers ensconced in layers and body heat. Crowley was still wearing Aziraphale’s jumper, and he would have been wearing his own overcoat with it if not for Aziraphale and the warmth of his skin. Funny, how Crowley’s heart burned with hellfire but Aziraphale was still his hearth. The looks and touches he gave were enough to warm Crowley’s bones.

With Aziraphale’s shirt removed, the angel set to work on Crowley’s layers. Even with the blanket pulled around him, Crowley shivered as the cold air met his exposed midriff. Aziraphale tugged the fabric down, covering him, and undid the top button of the cardigan instead. “A compromise?”

Crowley nodded. The neck of Aziraphale’s cardigan was loose on him, and with only the top button undone, his neck and collarbones sat pale and exposed. He gasped as Aziraphale rose and pressed a gentle kiss to his chest.

“I think,” Aziraphale whispered against Crowley’s collarbone, “that you might just be a miracle.”

“Stop it.” 

“It’s true.” He nipped at Crowley’s neck and rose, pressing his lips to the shell of his ear. “No amount of grace could have prepared me for meeting you.” 

……….

“You hungry, angel?” Crowley asked, as he added the scarf Aziraphale had brought him to his bundle of layers.

The clock on the wall read 11:22. Just looking at it made Aziraphale peckish.

His eyes darted from Crowley to the door. If they were to leave now, the moment they shared, tangled together in a heap of blankets, would break. Moments tend to do that; break. 

Crowley looked down at him with eyes so powerful that Aziraphale didn’t need to sense love to know it was there. Perhaps this moment could break, but in an endurable way. Like a wave.

 _“Starving,”_ he answered.

They decided to get breakfast in town. The best their overworked housemaid could manage was likely toast and some runny eggs, which simply would not do— they’d lived too long to endure yet another subpar breakfast. 

They stopped by a coffee house instead; one that brewed Columbian coffee just the way that Crowley likes. They selected their drinks and croissants with glee— the ones topped with icing sugar, naturally.

Crowley watched as Aziraphale tore a piece of his croissant and popped it into his mouth. A light dusting of icing sugar fell upon his lapel and he half expected Crowley to lick it clean. 

“You can have some, you know.”

Crowley shrugged. “I’m not hungry.”

“Well, you look famished,” Aziraphale informed him, sliding a croissant across the table on his napkin.

He stared down at it, bemused. “I do, don’t I?”

It was hard not to touch Crowley, after everything that had transpired over the course of the last 24 hours. Aziraphale had, effectively, told Crowley that he loved him. That he was _in_ love with him. And he had yet to flinch. He didn’t riot or cry or leave, he’d just accepted it. And it had shifted something deep inside of him. Since their clifftop rendezvous, Crowley was more daring in his affections. He leaned closer when Aziraphale spoke, his arm pressing against the angel’s as they walked in tandem down the narrow streets of Dover. 

They were far too exposed here to do anything more than lean and ogle. Shopkeepers and passersby, men on parade and women in patriotic attire all bustled about their business with keen eyes. Unable to perform miracles but far from miracle-less, they were forced to be something else: human.

“There’s that bookshop you were going on about,” said Crowley, pointing. His hand on Aziraphale’s coat sleeve was warm. Aziraphale imagined it burning clean-through the wool.

“Splendid.”

It was quaint, the little alcove perched on a street-corner. A small bookshop by the sea with a wandering tabby and a painting of Sappho on the cliffs positioned over a small display of travel guides. The presumed owner of the establishment was tucked away in a small corner and appeared to be asleep as they stepped inside. 

“The human version of you,” Crowley said, nodding to the old man.

The shop smelled of parchment, must, and saltwater air. A haven.

“I suppose that you’ll want to be moving here permanently,” Crowley commented, “now that you’ve seen this.”

“Hardly,” Aziraphale scolded, his eyes as big as saucers. “This place is lovely, but far too hospitable. People may actually want to _stay.”_

Aziraphale’s eyes caught on a crisp green binding that was perched atop a swaying stack of disordered literature. He read the title as he reached for it: _Intentions: A Collection of Essays by Oscar Wilde._ He opened it to find a brilliant sketch of its author outlined in sharp charcoal.

“Today has been good, so far,” Crowley commented, pushing passed him in the direction of the Classics section; “don’t spoil it.”

“Hardly.” He squeezed Crowley’s hand as he passed, dropping it so as not to be seen by the store’s ancient bookkeeper. Unlikely— he looked dead to the world.

Crowley loved observing Aziraphale in his element. He had so many of them, really— poised in front of canvases and statuary, drifting between shelves like corridors. He could disappear down them if he tried, as he so often did. An old thing among old things. The books seemed to sigh as he traced them with his dust-covered fingers. Kin recognizing kin. 

When Aziraphale held paint or charcoal in his hands, you couldn’t stop him even if you wanted to. His hands relished the task in front of him as they danced over the canvas. Crowley would try to bait him, of course. He would say or do something ridiculous to draw his eyes away. Once, when he was feeling particularly touch-starved and just a little bit devious, he quietly went about removing his clothes as Aziraphale sketched. It only took a few seconds for Aziraphale to notice. His hand hovered over the sketchpad and he bit his lip as he watched with an unreadable expression. Then he smirked as he set about his task of removing Crowley’s nightgown on the page as well.

He never did get to finish the sketch, though. Perhaps someday.

But bookstores…bookstores were something else. If Aziraphale was unstoppable with a brush, then, in a bookshop, you wouldn’t even think to try. All Crowley could do was watch as he hovered, drifting through the shop in this unfamiliar town as though he’d been inside its walls forever. Bookshop-living was like learning a language, Crowley thought. You learn the actions first: verbs of searching, finding, and loving. Then came the adjectives: dusty, well-bound, gilded. Soon a picture would emerge. A man overdressed for a seaside shop, grinning at a book he’s never read with nearly as much adoration as he does with books he’s read a thousand times before. 

Languages have always eluded Crowley. He’d tell you himself that he’s a poor student; just curious enough to try. But trying is the heart of the matter, you see. Those who try and succeed are known only for their success. And those who try and fail are regarded as failures— a moniker which they can learn to accept, however trying that task may be, and move on. But a perpetual try-er…that was rare. And for once in his expansive life, Crowley didn’t worry about failure. It would always be there, of course; that nagging sensation in the back of his mind, telling him that this, too, would end. Not just their time in Dover but the looks they shared as they crossed the stacks, treasure-hunting. 

Aziraphale’s words played on like a broken record in the back of Crowley’s mind: _You have to be kinder to yourself…Don’t let me love you all by myself._

Aziraphale loved him. He loved him enough to look for him and carry his scarf for him, worried that he might be cold even when his words were ice. And Aziraphale, for better or worse, was a _reader._ And readers carry optimism in their hearts. They read one book and move onto the next, coping with a thousand endings that they love or hate, but most of all wish had never happened. What if that was the way Aziraphale loved him? Like books that progress and end and are added to his mental catalogue? 

Crowley stood frozen at the end of a shelf, his heart impaled by the notion that if Aziraphale’s love were to fade with time, the memory of it would persist. If their days by the seaside were nothing more than a book on Aziraphale’s shelf, then Crowley could live with that. He could look down on the angel from his perch on the bookshelf, finished but not quite over. (Nothing is ever over, to a historian.)

But it made it easier to bear, seeing the way Aziraphale took delight even in the books he’d read a hundred times before.

Aziraphale was roused from his reading as the old shopkeeper startled awake and offered to help him in his quest. It made Crowley smile. That man would be in for a rude awakening if he dared to question Azirphale’s taste in literature. 

Crowley took the opportunity to duck back into the Classics section. There was still something that needed to be done.

“Ready to leave?” Aziraphale asked when he returned, a small paper bag tucked discretely under his arm.

“Just one thing, first.” Crowley nodded to the old man who waited expectantly. “Well off you go now, Aziraphale, now that you’re done.”

Aziraphale frowned. “But wh—”

“What is this? The Spanish Inquisition? Off with you.”

“If you insist,” he said, turning away with a sly smile. 

They couldn’t keep secrets from one another, so they didn’t try.

By the time Crowley reemerged from the shop (with a discrete bag of his own in tow), Aziraphale was waiting for him with a small pastry box in his hands.

“You work fast,” Crowley remarked, resisting the urge to pull him into a kiss.

“Well, it’s not much, but I thought we might have ourselves a little picnic, what do you think?”

Crowley nodded. “I could do with a picnic.”

“Excellent.”

The walk to the beach was pleasant and winding. They followed the narrow streets until they melted into narrow paths, and eventually gave way to sand and stone. They left the crowded docks in the distance along with the fishing vessels in favour of the sand-dunes. With a military parade scheduled in town that afternoon, the beaches were barren. 

They took up a place among the dunes, with walls of sand shielding them on either side. Before them, the ocean came and went like a shy companion. They laid down their overcoats as blankets (how Aziraphale lamented the loss of miracles!) and positioned themselves on the sand. 

Crowley tipped his head back and sighed, watching as two gulls did battle overhead for a scrap of bread. “I love the sun,” he said, basking in the glow of it even as he shivered from the wind.

“I know, my dear.”

Aziraphale opened his box to reveal two small cupcakes slathered in vanilla frosting. He handed one to Crowley, and took up the other one himself.

“What are we celebrating?” Asked Crowley, swiping a finger across the edge of his cake and licking it.

“Nothing in particular,” said Aziraphale. He paused, considering. “Would it be too sentimental of me to suggest that we are celebrating everything? The way things are?”

Crowley shook his head, shifting to sit upright on his coat. “Not at all.”

“Well then.” Aziraphale said, touching his cupcake to Crowley’s like a champagne glass. “To everything, then.”

“To everything.” Crowley echoed.

The two watched the water as they ate, enjoying the crash of waves and nothing else. In the distance, bagpipes began to play. The parade had just begun.

“I’ve gotten you something,” Aziraphale announced, once they’d finished their treat. He reached behind him to retrieve the brown paper bag, handing it to Crowley. “I only wish I could have wrapped it first. I could have presented it better…”

“Shut up,” Crowley told him, taking it eagerly. He reached inside and retrieved a crimson cloth-bound edition of _Daisy Miller,_ by Henry James. “I haven’t read this one. Is it any good?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “Not sure. I’ve never read it before. I chose it because it has a flower in the title, and I was rather desperate to get you flowers.”

“Oh.” Crowley swallowed hard, feeling a tad desperate himself. “Can I kiss you, angel?”

Aziraphale smiled back at him. “Please do.”

Crowley inched forward, abandoning his coat in favour of Aziraphale’s. He kissed him fiercely, his hands stroking the angel’s neck. Crowley knew no language capable of saying _thank you for loving me_ with half the sincerity he felt, so he said nothing. Instead, he showed him.

He broke the kiss only to lean back with his legs curled up under him and press a gentle kiss to Aziraphale’s forehead. 

Aziraphale’s face was overcome with softness as he reached down, taking one of Crowley’s hands in his own. “Crowley, your hands are shaking! Are you that cold?”

“No,” Crowley answered, shaking his head. “Just nervous.”

Aziraphale brought his hand to his lips and blew on it, rubbing the warmth into Crowley’s skin even as he insisted he wasn’t cold. “You have no need to be nervous, my dear.”

“I know. Still am.” He looked out over the ocean waves, feeling as though he’d been lost at sea himself only moments before. “Can you tell me why?”

“Why what?”

“Why you…said what you said yesterday?”

Aziraphale gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Which part?”

“The part when you told me you love me.”

Aziraphale smiled, though there was an anxiety behind it, Crowley could tell. “Well, I suppose I’ve always suspected it. Though I could never quite bring myself to own up to it.”

“Yes, yes, I know. But why now? Why after I leave you rather than the days before, when we were happy?”

Aziraphale sighed. “I told you how I searched for you, do you remember?”

Crowley nodded.

“Well, the entire time— whenever I would start to panic, wondering where you were or what you might be doing—” his expression flickered and Crowley nodded, encouragingly. “— I heard your voice telling me where to go and what to do. I didn’t realize it until then, but…”

“But?”

“I think,” he whispered, speaking to their entwined hands, “that for me, my inner voice sounds an awful lot like _you.”_

Crowley blinked in surprise before drawing Aziraphale’s had to his mouth and kissing it. 

“When I’m lost, I look to you,” Aziraphale told him. “And I think that maybe, I always have.”

Aziraphale kissed him then, and Crowley whined against his lips. Before the sound destroyed him completely, Aziraphale was on him again, kissing harder and more determinedly than ever. It made Crowley pull back and press his forehead to Aziraphale before the angel’s tongue could wreck him completely. All he could think was what a privilege it was, to look at him and see those blue eyes staring so surely back.

“I have something for you, too,” he told him, pulling back while he still had an ounce of nerve. He wiped his face with his sleeve as his back was turned, retrieving his own gift.

He handed it to Aziraphale, and waited.

The angel nearly cried as he pulled the brown leather book from its package. “Hamlet.”

“Look inside. Page 47.”

He turned to it easily, gasping at the hastily-drawn underline beneath the words: _Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love._

 _“Oh, Crowley,”_ he whispered, dragging an index finger down the page, tracing the indentation. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Probably something about how it’s blasphemous to _write_ in a perfectly good book. You should have seen the old man’s face when I asked him for a pencil. Like I was committing a crime.”

Aziraphale laughed. “I quite understand his assessment. Blasphemy of the highest order, I’m afraid.” He took Crowley’s hand once more, entwining their fingers together. “But not this day.”

“No?” 

Aziraphale shook his head. He laughed, but it came out lilting and wet. “I don’t know if I’ve ever been this happy. In fact, I’m certain I haven’t been.”

Crowley opened Aziraphale’s hand to press a kiss to his palm. Aziraphale watched him do it and felt as though he were in a medieval painting, with the gleaming colours and not-quite-right facial expressions. Because he knew he didn’t look quite right, and neither did Crowley. They both looked as though they were being torn open, even as they worked to put one another back together. 

“Do you know why I chose this quote?” Crowley asked, trying to distract Aziraphale before he began crying in earnest.

“Of course, because it’s _Hamlet.”_

“Hmm, yes, but also because of Egypt.”

“Egypt? Really?”

“Yeah. Remember, that night on the roof when you asked me if I regretted asking questions?”

“Yes, but what—”

“—You asked me about the stars, too. You let me tell you about the stars and how I made them. You even pretended to doubt that the stars were made of fire— a claim which I now know to be a lie.” He nudged him with his shoulder. “You’re much too clever for that.”

Aziraphale did a double take, putting the pieces together but not quite believing it. “You wrote those lines, didn’t you?”

He scoffed. “I wrote them _a bit._ Old William made them sound clearer; more refined. But yes, I did.”

“Is that when…” Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably on the sand, like he didn’t want to say it. “When you knew…”

“That I loved you?”

Aziraphale nodded.

“Yes. ‘think so.”

“But you never said anything, then. You just went to bed that night.”

“I did. I went to bed cursing myself for being grateful.”

Aziraphale studied his eyes, confused.

Crowley sighed. He wasn’t good with this part— with matching the words to the fire. “I was grateful because you had asked me about the stars and when I told you, you listened as if it mattered. No one had ever done that before.”

“What? Asked you about the stars?”

He shook his head gravely. “No. You asked me for my opinion.”

Aziraphale said nothing. Instead he pulled Crowley into his arms. He lost his hands in Crowley’s hair as the demon snaked his arms around Aziraphale’s waist. He held him fast as he watched the waves drawing breaths, in and out, behind them. He didn’t want Crowley to see him crying. He only wanted him to feel the tightness of his arms around him and know that this was enough. That Aziraphale was an anchor, if he ever needed one. That he was an open port and the ropes to bind his ship. _Rest here a while,_ he thought, rubbing circles into the small of Crowley’s back, _and take shelter on the sand with me. We can pass an eternity like this, taking shelter from the storm. Today we are on a beach. May our hearts still be here a year from now._

Crowley pulled back until he faced Aziraphale head-on. Slowly, he inched closer. He kissed a tear as it trickled down the left side of the angel’s face. “Do you know,” he muttered, then made quick work of the other cheek, “how I love you?”

He pressed his nose to Aziraphale’s cheek and dragged it upwards, tickling him. It made Aziraphale smile, just a bit.

“Don’t cry, angel. ‘wouldn’t know what to do if you did.”

Of course he knew; he’d cry too.

“Just kiss me, love.”

And he did.

Many, many times. Just sand and lips and waves and skin.

Aziraphale whispered Crowley’s name into his neck and it sounded like νόστος.

Like a homecoming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I 1000% know exactly how sappy this is, and I'm not even sorry. Also exciting that this is the first chapter where there isn't an extended reference to a historical concept or philosophy... because they're finally living in the present _together._ (Ok, I'll stop)
> 
> Also, I made a Tumblr for the purposes of shameless self-promotion. Shoot me a message at Celestialsnek if you ever want to freak out about these two! ^.^
> 
> As always, thank you for reading and going on this little adventure with me 💜


	12. Epiphanies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter also comes with a song-- long awaited.
> 
> I Dreamed of Rain, and the Rain Came, performed by Jan Garrett and J.D. Martin.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CBzQ1Y4GG4I

**May 7th, 1945**

Here’s the thing about human nature— it is nearly impossible to predict. A conflict can last days or years or centuries, depending upon the age and the depths of the fury driving it. Humans take complex situations and either burn them down or build them up. Or worse, they do neither of these things, and endure the flowerless no-man’s land between a thought and a decision. Humans invent clocks and pocket watches to aid their productivity and end up being ruled by them. From a crowd of bright faces they elect a saviour and raise them high, only to tear them down. Before Caesar was murdered, he was loved. And he was loved afterwards, too (it is much easier to love empty space than the person who once occupied it). For centuries prophets and prophetesses have masqueraded as fortune-tellers, palm-readers, and writers for the Farmers’ Almanac. They have been right and wrong and so near to the truth that they might as well have been believed by default. But instinct is not the same as knowledge.

It is not the same as knowing.

And Crowley knows so much, now.

The slow months and years he’d spent spent living a relatively human life with Aziraphale have been an education for him. He knows what Aziraphale looks like in the morning, with sleepy eyes and hands that never stop reaching. He knows that the appearance of the vein on the left side of his forehead when he’s thinking indicates worry and that a pot of tea and a conversation will soon be on the horizon. Even in those moments, he doesn’t fear Aziraphale’s words. Aziraphale is a lot like the sea when he’s angry. He recedes and goes dark, but always returns to the shore. Crowley likes that about him— his constancy. He is both the sea, and the lighthouse. Deep enough to drown in, but without fear of being lost.

‘Lost’ used to be the defining word of Crowley’s life. The perpetual tourist, venturing into the past while the rest of the world moved forward. Some days, he felt like he needed a map to tell him where to go— to find his way back to the rest of the world. And perhaps there will always be something restless about him. Anxiety seems to tap his feet _for_ him and his wandering eyes still check all the exits when the sirens start. The difference is that now, he fights it.

The interesting thing about fear is that the fearful see it everywhere. Crowley, for example, found it in the past. You see, after the Persian War, Herodotus wrote that it was their freedom (ἐλευθερία, to be precise) that allowed the vastly outnumbered Greek fleet to defeat Xerxes and his invading hoard. Because King Xerxes had his subjects whipped into battle, the Persian warriors would be defeated regardless of the battle’s outcome. The Greeks, on the other hand, were free. And because they were free, they could be beaten only by their enemy.

The word _‘panic’_ has an interesting origin— from the Greek god Pan, who ran rampant in the heat of battle, terrifying all those who saw him. In battle, Pan is as much the enemy as anyone else. For Crowley, it is the same. Panic is his enemy, with whom he bravely does battle.

And he is not alone in his fight any longer. He and Aziraphale are both well acquainted with one another’s fears. At first, it seemed to sit in the room with them. Fear that Heaven or Hell would find them, yes, but most of all that they themselves were flowers, incapable of growing outside of a garden. Their internal battles waged for years and will wage for many more because it is in their nature. Where there is love there is also a fear of its departure.

As usual, Crowley found his answers in the past, whispered from one historian to another. Like Herodotus’ united front against the Persians, he believed that he and Aziraphale must maintain a united front against themselves. 

He thought Aziraphale would laugh when he told him. He thought they would have a proper giggle with wine glasses in their hands as he told him about his readings and his continued use of the past as a makeshift instruction manual. 

But the angel didn’t laugh. Instead, he’d swirled the wine in his glass and said, “hmm, I wonder if Herodotus knew the weight of the words he’d written.”

 _Who knows?_ The weight of words depends entirely upon the hands that hold them.

Crowley knew it was the united front that got them through it all. When he felt that shadowy doubt creeping in, discolouring the reflections of himself, Aziraphale was there. When thoughts of Heaven and Hell kept Aziraphale from reading, Crowley read the words for him, smooth and slow, as Aziraphale had done for him on so many occasions. And as the words smoothed the edges of him, Crowley took notice.

“I want everyday to be like this one,” Crowley said one morning, burrowing deeper into Aziraphale’s warmth. Winter had descended upon London with a vengeance, driving everyone to seek refuge under wool and blankets. Oddly enough, it helped to settle Crowley— the cold. It gave him an excuse to hold tight and to burrow. “It’s like there’s nothing to worry about today; every thought feels like an epiphany.”

Aziraphale laughed and the sound of it reverberated through Crowley’s chest. 

“We can’t live on epiphanies alone, I’m afraid.” Aziraphale said, an affectionate hand tangled in Crowley’s locks. “But how I love your optimism.”

It was shortly after this exchange that Crowley began frequenting jewelry stores on his way home from the shops. Nothing serious— just an idea. A pleasant thought to distract him from the rain and the war. Marriage was hardly a concern for eternal beings. It was a fleeting, human thing; the decision to bind themselves to another for the short time they had on earth. 

For Crowley, it was just the opposite— _he_ was not fleeting; the things in his life were, with one crucial exception.

It was just a thought. One which he almost felt proud to think. With all the prophets of the ages at his disposal, he doubts whether a single one of them could have predicted his current state.

 _He’s happy._ He has found a proper home in a place _and_ a person. He and Aziraphale share silences and words, both. When one reaches for the other, the other reaches back. And Hell never comes up— not even once. (It’s not quite true, but Crowley likes to believe it is)

_Is healing always sideways?_

“Crowley.” 

He’s curled up on the floor of the closet with a duvet tangled around his waist. A midday nap stretching just a little long.

“Wake up, my dear.” Aziraphale is smiling at him, but there are tears in his eyes and he looks overjoyed and frazzled all at once.

“What is it?” Crowley asks, blinking awake.

“It’s over.”

“What’s over?”

“The _war._ It’s finally over, can you imagine it?”

Without thinking, Crowley smiles up at him. The angel looks so overwhelmed he might burst.

Then the thoughts return: _if the humans’ war is over, then the celestial ceasefire is on its way out._

“Have you heard from…”

“Radio silence, thankfully.” He says it confidently, like he’d practiced for this. “From both sides.”

Crowley nods. Peace had only just been declared— it might be years before their respective sides would settle on their next move.

Or hours.

“What would you like to do?” Aziraphale asked. “It seems everyone else is out celebrating.”

“Let’s join them, then.” Said Crowley. Aziraphale reached a hand out to him, pulling him to his feet. “And do we still have any champagne?”

The streets were much too crowded for an outing. Crowley stepped out the front doors of the shop only to be bumped and dragged along by a crowd brandishing union jacks and clanging bottles. The sense of utter relief was palpable. Chants of _‘it’s over! It’s over!’_ sounded from windows and street corners. Crowley made his way back to Azirphale only for the two of them to be dragged further into the commotion. They’d only walked a short way before turning back, feeling claustrophobic with the bodies and swells of emotion around them.

Aziraphale, ever the voice of reason, suggested they watch from the second floor window. They sat perched on either end of it, trading a bottle of champagne between them. 

“Reminds you of the _Iliad,_ doesn’t it?” Asked Crowley, looking down. “We’re like Athena and Apollo, you and I, watching the mortals fight— or, not, for once.”

“I was just thinking that.” He said, smiling. “Perhaps this one will be a peace that they can keep.”

Crowley quirked a skeptical brow.“You really think that?”

He sighed. “No, I suppose not. But it is a pleasant thought.”

“Hmm.” Crowley nodded, handing the bottle back to Aziraphale. “Why do you think they keep doing it? Going to war? Just general…humanness?”

“I like to think it’s because of love.”

 _“Love?”_ Crowley gaped at him. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh but I am. I think that everything we do is motivated by love, really.” He watched a group of revellers on the sidewalk below, waiting at a streetlamp for the slowest among them to catch up. “Even if we don’t know it at the time.”

“You would say that, angel.”

 _Angel._ That word seemed to charge the evening air. It conjured images of flaming swords and battle lines drawn, rather than the mild mannered librarian the term had come to represent. Crowley held his breath, in wait of a reaction.

Aziraphale handed the bottle back to him, dabbing at his mouth with a handkerchief. “What do you think will happen now? With Heaven and Hell?”

Crowley’s mouth fell into a hard line even as he put the bottle to his lips; he’d been asking himself that question for years. “Back to old business, I suppose.”

Aziraphale nodded. “And I suppose that means we’re back on opposite sides, then?”

His voice was like shattered glass; littered with cracks.

“No.” Crowley said, firmly. “Not a chance, angel. They’ll have to drag me out of this old house, don’t you worry.”

Aziraphale quirked a smile. “Well, I’m glad we’re on the same page about that, then.”

Crowley hummed in agreement, taking another swig of wine.

“I just wish…”Aziraphale began, staring out over the uneven remains of the London skyline. “I just wish that there was something we could do to show them that we don’t belong to them. That we’re on our own side.”

Crowley stared down into the street below. Celebrants swayed as they staggered down the cobblestone path waving bottles and banners with glee. “The side of the humans, more like.”

“They have their merits,” Aziraphale said, smiling. The world was rife with evidence that humanity was a lost cause, but he possessed paintings and sculptures from every corner of the globe attesting to the contrary. All in all, he thought it safe to say, _‘they aren’t all that bad,’_ and leave it at that.

“We could always get married.” Crowley mused.

Aziraphale choked on his champagne. “I beg your pardon?”

“Well you don’t have to sound so surprised. It was just an idea.”

“No, no…” Aziraphale nudged Crowley’s side with his foot, “it’s just that I didn’t know you even wanted to.”

“‘course I want to! Why wouldn’t I want to?”

_As if I haven't been thinking it since the Beginning, what it would be like to have this, forever._

“Crowley— I tiptoed around you for weeks thinking that you might have an aneurism if I told you I loved you! Forgive me for thinking that this might be a little much for you.”

Crowley shook his head. A cold laugh sat in his throat that refused to surface. “I don’t know why I’m so slow to everything.”

“I do.” He tapped Crowley with his socked foot and the demon caught it in his hands. “It’s because your first instinct is to love everything. And when you love everything, anything in the world might be the thing that causes you pain.”

Again, he shook his head. “I don’t love everything, angel. I just don’t do anything halfway.”

Aziraphale smiled, his foot still clasped tightly in Crowley’s grip. “Then why are you falling short on this proposal?”

“I— what?”

“You heard me. You’ll have to do it properly. Down on one knee and all that. Like humans do.”

Crowley wrinkled his nose. “Are you seriously criticizing the way I’m _proposing_ to you?”

“Yes; but hopefully in a way that makes instructions sound romantic.”

Crowley rose from the window with a sigh that was much louder than necessary. Slowly, he walked to the dresser and plunged a hand inside. He returned to Aziraphale’s side, kneeling before him with a black velvet box in his hands.

“You already have the ring?!” Aziraphale gasped, his body now fully turned towards Crowley.

“You’re not the only one who can pull off a romantic gesture, Aziraphale,” he said, smirking at the angel’s wide eyes. “I invented it, you know.”

“What? Wedding rings?”

“No— well, yes, I did invent the marketing scheme, but that isn’t all I’m talking about. I mean that I invented _weddings.”_

Aziraphale scoffed. “You can’t be serious.”

“‘course I am. Lots of people who get married…they aren’t ready for it. They just go for it on a whim, thinking it’s what they ought to do, or what’s expected of them. Lots of room for demonic intervention, there. So I gave them ideas. Giant wedding cakes, inviting guests whom they don’t actually like, not to mention the rambling officiants at the ceremony…”

“Don’t make it sound so…unpleasant.”

“No…you don’t understand. I did that for the _humans._ I was curious— I never understood their impulse to get so close to one another; why they chain themselves to another person so easily, like it’s nothing. Like they actually believe that they have something worth keeping, when humans are so little and so flawed. Seemed a mad idea to me. 

But then you were there. And you were so clever and did such interesting things, traveling and collecting art. And you said such strange things— imagine, doubting that the stars in the sky are made of fire—”

Aziraphale giggled, looking down at him through wet lashes.

“—and then I realized you were collecting me, too. You showed me your art and the villa and I felt like you were showing me the pieces of myself that you had collected. I didn’t even realize you were taking from me until I was alone, and I missed the parts of myself that lived with you.”

Aziraphale gaped at Crowley with such a look of awe and admiration that Crowley wanted to kiss him senseless if only he didn’t look so confused.

For just a moment, the hesitation made him doubt. 

“Have I miscalculated, angel?”

The angel shook his head. “Just come over here, dearest.”

Aziraphale extended his hand to him, tugging the demon into his lap. Crowley, now straddling Aziraphale and the window, slotted their lips together in one swift movement. Aziraphale held onto him tightly, his mouth gone slack as if he’s forgotten how to do anything more than stare. He let Crowley take the lead as he cradled his face in his hands and forgot how to breathe.

“So is that a yes, then?” Crowley asked, pressing the box into Aziraphale’s palm.

“It certainly is.”

Crowley covered Aziraphale’s hand with his own and together, they opened the small black box. 

Aziraphale gasped when he saw the delicate silver band, etched with stars and the outlines of minuscule constellations. “You gave me the stars,” he said, turning the band over in his hands.

Crowley nodded. “Of course, angel. I made them for you, didn’t I?”

“You most certainly did not.”

“True, but I like my story better.” He buried his face in Aziraphale’s neck, nosing at his shoulder while the angel held him. “I put them up there to give you something to look at.”

Aziraphale laughed. “You’re still a revisionist historian then, hm?”

“The best in the business.”

The angel pulled back slightly, watching him. The way the streetlamp (now lit in the evening, the threat of bombers removed) illuminated his sharp features seemed to soften his edges and wake him up all at once. It made Aziraphale want to reach for his sketchbook and finish the work. The work that would never be completed, if light kept revealing a different shade of Crowley each time. (Epiphany, too, contains the word φανός— light)

“So when would you like to do it?”

Crowley shrugged. “I don’t have anything going on at the moment…”

“What, right now?”

“Sure, why not?” He took Aziraphale’s hand in his own, working their fingers together. “The way I see it, the celestial ceasefire ends the moment the humans sign the papers for peace. When that happens…well, I’d like for us to be on the same side. Completely.”

“For what it’s worth, I think that we’ve always been on our own side, regardless of our marital status;” Aziraphale drew out the word _marital,_ appreciating the sound of it; “but still, I am thrilled that I will soon be able to call you my partner.”

Crowley raised a brow. “What? Not husband?”

He tucked a stray lock of hair behind Crowley’s ear. “Husband, partner, wife… I’ll take it all.”

Crowley pulled Aziraphale into a hug, if only to hide his blush.

“So, where would you like to do this, seeing as churches are off the table?”

“They certainly are,” remarked Crowley, remembering the burns of three years ago. “Perhaps a garden would be more fitting?”

Aziraphale gasped. “What about St. James’ Park?”

Even in the darkness, the cobblestone streets were alive with wandering feet. The gloomy veil of the past six years was finally lifting, and stars could be seen wheeling overhead without the threat of fire and destruction. It felt like an odd sense of justice, having the stars remain right where they ought to be, lighting up the world below.

The two walked slowly, savouring the evening stretched out before him. Aziraphale wore his best white suit— the only suit he owned that wasn’t (according to Crowley) a _ghastly_ shade of beige. The crisp whiteness of his collar seemed to make his eyes stand out even more, glowing a brilliant shade of blue.

Crowley wore a simple black suit with a narrow tie which Aziraphale had insisted upon helping him with. Ties were the one area of fashion for which Crowley deferred to Aziraphale’s expertise. More than that, it gave Crowley the opportunity to watch him as he did it. 

“I’m going to marry you,” he’d said, watching as his words stopped Aziraphale’s hands about his neck. “I can’t believe I’m going to marry you.”

They almost didn’t make it out of the house.

All around them, drunken celebrants struggled on their feet, mouths tired from calling, _‘we’ve won! It’s over!’_ to everyone they met. Aziraphale and Crowley paused to watch as two nursing sisters walked home arm in arm, passing a bottle and tearful exchanges back and forth between them.

“Funny,” said Crowley, leaning closer, “how every war that comes feels like it’ll go on forever, and then it’s over, and it feels like a light’s been turned on.”

“Indeed. And we have seen so many dark nights.”

“We have,” Crowley agreed. “Fewer now, though.”

“Yes. Fewer now.”

St. James’ Park possessed a sense of natural dignity in the darkness. Flowers grew silently and leaves continued to blow in the wind even in the absence of their usual spectators. Crowley and Aziraphale knew right where to go— beneath the cover of a pair of unusually grown oak trees at the far edge of the park. An arbor archway.

They took their place beneath their branches, and Aziraphale cleared his throat, determined to speak first before he lost his nerve. “You must promise me that you won’t make any disparaging comments about my vows.”

“Why would I—”

“—Even if I mention Socrates.” 

Crowley’s eyes rolled back into his head. “Can’t we go one day without hearing about that old—”

“—I can leave, if you’d like.”

He put his hands up, defeated. “No, no. I’ll be…”

“Good?”

“Nice. I’ll be nice. That’s my final offer.”

“Fine.” He turned the note in his hands, looking to the trees overhead as if for advice. “Would I ruin the moment entirely if I confessed that I don’t exactly know how vows are supposed to go?”

“Seriously? You’ve never been to a wedding?” 

“Of course I have. I just…I don’t think those experiences actually compare to…this…”

_To marrying you._

Crowley nodded, a small smile taking hold of his lips. “Just say what you feel, angel. ‘couldn’t fault you for that.”

“Well, alright then.” He glanced down at the folded scrap of sketchpad-paper before tucking it back into his pocket. “You’d think I’d be better at this, really. I’m an _angel._ Love is supposed to be like currency, for us.”

“You’re doing great.”

He nodded, drawing in a deep breath. “I think… I think I always worried that there was something wrong with me; with the way that I existed. It’s funny that you said I collected art and pieces of you at the same time…I feel like that’s what the bookshop is, now. A mixture of us both. The historian and the artist, curating a life together. I never could have imagined…

Art was everything to me, before I knew you— I mean _really_ knew you. I collected fine paintings and sculptured marble and anything that might distract me for two minutes, because I felt a fool. Scripture tells us that angels are perfect, untouchable beacons of light, and there I was lusting after art and pastry and anything incapable of loving me back. I just needed somewhere to put it, I think; the love I couldn’t use on myself.” 

Crowley shook his head. _You’re better than them,_ the gesture meant. _You’re better than the lot of them; you’re grace itself packaged in a white suit and curly hair-- the only Heaven that I’m willing to accept._

“But then,” he said, smiling, “a charming, worldly young woman came to stay in my villa, and I thought: _oh, perhaps I am capable of loving something real._ It was so instinctive, I almost didn’t realize it was happening. And then, all of a sudden, I was walking into rooms hoping you’d be there.”

He reached for Crowley’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Through all of it, I’ve been quoting Socrates. Ἓν οἶδα ὅτι οὐδὲν οἶδα. _I know that I know nothing._ As it turns out, I’ve been terribly misguided about the whole thing, because I know _you._ You’re the thing I know, Crowley. I think you might be the only thing I know for sure.” 

“Wow,” remarked Crowley, studying the ground beside Aziraphale’s feet. “Don’t understand vows my ass.”

“I did _fine.”_

“Can’t believe I’m marrying such an over-achiever.”

_“Crowley.”_

“A proper nerd.”

“Alright, now. You’ve had your fun.”

“Hmm.” He looked at the stars, thinking that maybe he’d put them up there to get him through moments like these, which burned too brightly to be faced head-on.

Aziraphale swung Crowley’s hand in his. “I do believe it’s your turn, dearest.”

“I know, I know. I just had a whole speech planned and now…I don’t know what to say.” He took a deep breath. The glimmer in Aziraphale’s eyes gave him hope. “I used to be so afraid, you know. Of myself and everyone else. Like if I held onto anything too tightly it would break. I always felt like I could break things, or at least darken their colour a little. I think that’s why I fought it so much…you and I. Because I didn’t want it to be over.”

Aziraphale frowned, swiping a thumb over Crowley’s hand. “You know I’m not going anywhere.”

“Oi— you had your turn. These are my vows, so shut up.”

“Right; sorry.”

He cleared his throat, thinking. “I don’t know. I think there are some things that you move past and other things you move through. Eventually I stopped fighting it. How _good_ you made me feel.”

“Why?”

“Well…it’s like…everything I told or _showed_ you about myself— gave you another way to hurt me, yeah? But you didn’t. I gave you so much ammunition and you never used it. Eventually I figured out that I was safe with you. Because you’re not a risk, Aziraphale. After I fell, I saw risk everywhere. Nothing felt _safe,_ so I believed in nothing. But I believe in you. You’re the answer to a question I didn’t know I was asking.”

The angel grinned back at him, speechless. Tears hung suspended in his eyes.

“No, don’t you dare cry, ‘ziraphale. If you cry that means I’ve done it wrong.”

He shook his head, wiping his eyes on his coat sleeve. “You most certainly did _not.”_ He squeezed Crowley’s hands in his. “Let’s get on with this, shall we? I’m terribly impatient to be married to you.”

Crowley nodded. 

You’d think they’d be used to waiting, by now.

“Now how do I…right.” He cleared his throat. “By the power vested in me by…”

“Us.”

“Us. I now pronounce us…”

“Wait! You forgot about the rings!”

“Oh, yes! So sorry.” Aziraphale fumbled to retrieve a purple velvet box from his pocket. He took the ring in his hand and worked his own ring off of his finger, handing it to Crowley. “With this ring—”

“How about we skip the formalities?”

“Quite right,” Aziraphale agreed. _In sickness and in health_ doesn’t exactly apply to us, does it?”

Crowley hummed in agreement. He watched as Aziraphale took his left hand and raised it, a thin silver band in tow. 

“I had this made especially for you,” the angel said, brandishing it in the air. “You aren’t the only one who’s been thinking of matrimony lately.”

Crowley watched as the angel tilted the ring between his fingers, revealing a delicate pair of wings discretely etched on the inside of the band. “I love it.”

Just as Crowley was about to slip the star-studded band back onto Aziraphale’s finger, a stray leaf from the oak tree overhead was torn loose by the wind; it landed square on Crowley’s face, making Aziraphale laugh as he struggled to swipe it from his vision.

“Ugh! What is it with us and gardens?” Crowley asked, sputtering.

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale said, laughing as he brushed the leaf from Crowley’s lapel. “Perhaps they spring up wherever we are.”

There is no need to ever fear for the plant life in St. James' Park-- the union shared beneath the oakwood trees that night is enough to sustain them for generations to come.

The walk back to the shop was quiet and serene. The city had settled down to sleep at last. Crowley and Aziraphale clung to one another as they made their way home to their English-version of Ithaca.

They stopped only to listen to a man singing from a street corner to stragglers as they passed him by:

_"I dreamed of rain, and the rains came,  
Soft and easy, sweet and clear.  
I dreamed of rain, and the rains came,  
And peace spread over the land._

_I dreamed of Heaven, and the earth sang,  
And the sound was easy, and the song was clear.  
I dreamed of Heaven, and the earth sang,  
And peace spread over the land._

_And the ancient pain is forgotten,  
And the father’s debts are clear.  
I dreamed of Heaven, and the earth sang,  
And peace spread over the land."_

His voice was graceful if a little rough, and the two listened in silence, remembering. Crowley dropped a donation into the man’s upturned hat (30$, or 300? It all looked the same to Crowley).

Aziraphale hung on the singer’s every word, grateful for the rain that had allowed him to shield another person thousands of years ago, yesterday, and for centuries to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing to say but 💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜


	13. Epilogue

**July 23rd, 1973**

The floors in the bookshop are old and worn. Like the streets of Rome, or a forgotten villa. Like ancient ruins, these floorboards were made to last, and are believed in still. Whether or not their intact-ness is due to their sturdy construction, or simply to fervent belief, remains to be seen. Nevertheless, wooden boards meet neatly underfoot, and though they are worn by footsteps and time, they have yet to give out. 

A good bookshop is a sturdy place to land.

Unlike the ruins of old, this building, cluttered with more archaeological finds than even its inhabitants know, has no written history. Instead it has evidence: old crumpled letters tied off with string, tomes of myth and other people’s histories, and teacups at varying stages of cleanliness. Breaks in the dust line betray the movements of its inhabitants just as easily as the seats and cushions seem to mould themselves to visitors. There is no need to record-keep— only to live.

This civilization is far from over. 

Certain rituals remain. The duvet is always placed casually, loose and ready to be swept up and tossed onto the closet floor at a moment’s notice (the air raids are gone, but panic never really leaves you). Cups of tea are always poured in twos, and sketchbooks masquerade as books wherever they can. These are the new hieroglyphics— pictorial communications where words fail. Aziraphale has spent a lifetime reading and worshipping the words of great literary minds; it brings him a deep sense of satisfaction to proclaim himself in pictures instead of borrowed words. 

Over the dining table and a well-worn kettle, a portrait watches over it all. It hangs, pristine and silent, like a masterpiece in a gallery. Few have ever seen it, and few ever will, if Aziraphale has his way. He’s titled it “The Historian,” although Crowley has some serious doubts as to whether or not any great historians have ever been depicted in dressing gowns at their dinner table. He doesn’t push the subject, though. He doesn’t consider himself among their ranks. He isn’t a Thucydides, Herodotus, or MacMillan (that last one still to come). He is simply Crowley. And in his home of dust motes and antiquarian literature, Herodotus and Thucydides hold little dominion, if any. 

He likes the portrait, he really does. He likes the colours Aziraphale has given him. His fingers are long and spindly, curving around an orange peel nonchalantly as if he’d forgotten about it. He stares past the observer and into the room beyond, gazing bemusedly at an artist who is not depicted but is always there. 

_This must be what it feels like to be seen,_ he thinks, gazing at the portrait in passing. Although he’s always found his snake eyes unsettling, Aziraphale has rendered them almost endearing in his amber-coloured oils. 

Yes, ‘endearing’ sounds like the right word. The way the light streams through the curtains each morning: Endearing. The way Aziraphale looks at him at the end of a long book: Endearing. How they awake to each other each morning, whether they sleep or not: Endearing.

_“Good morning, dearest,”_ Aziraphale has said on so many occasions. 

_“Mmmm,”_ Crowley responds eloquently, every time. 

Perhaps you are still wondering, as Crowley does, how exactly a revisionist historian is able to resign themselves to the present tense. After centuries of revising, recasting, and remodelling the collisions and near misses that have defined his life, Crowley thinks the answer might lie in tragedy, and the realization that tragedy is stagnant while life is not. Life is never over in the present tense, but our lives end many times before we’re through. We look back on its stages like bricks in the road. Bricks we never know we’ve placed until it is too late, our feet already steering us away from them. Those who love tragedy will work through the night to relay the stones of their past, not knowing that the day has ended. The sun going down without their knowledge or consent.

You see, the only tragedy is the future that cannot happen and thus does not. Tragedy cannot breathe in the present tense. It lives in the moment after, in the realization. The Greeks have a word for this tragic recognition: ἀναγνώρισις. Luckily, Crowley’s Greek is getting a tad rusty, and he has since fallen out of practice with recognizing the tragic moments of his life. The years before 1941 feel a lot like ancient history to him, now.

He revisits them, sure. He can live among the marble halls when he so wishes. The thing is…he doesn’t long for them as much any more. The cold stone offers little consolation when the present is so filled with light.

And Aziraphale, the skilled artist and master of light and shadows— he knows light when he sees it. He sketches and paints and designs, capturing his world like lightening bugs in his hands, capturing a moment and then letting it pass. The apartment is a sort of gallery, now; littered with fine art and skillful flourishes. He has painted the same features many times. A [not always] patient muse and (occasionally) the man who stands beside her in the door.

_“How many times are you going to draw me, angel?” Crowley asks, abandoning his book to face the artist head-on._

_“At least one more, I’m afraid,” responds Aziraphale, afraid of nothing._

Well, not quite nothing. Fearlessness has not yet been mastered by any creature whose feet tread upon the earth. Heaven still reigns overhead, as yet unaware of the commingling of enemies below it. Hell, too, remains suspicious and unchanged. Crowley appeases them every now and then with a job well done. Lately, he’s been moonlighting as a second reader for various historical journals (Hayden White will never publish again, if he has anything to say about it). The task may be considered light-lifting by Hell’s standards, but the debates he sparks in history classrooms around the globe provide enough negative energy to power London for a year, so his superiors say nothing.

Mischief, Crowley hopes, will be enough to get him through.

Mischief, and faith, not in a side but in one another. He’d follow those tartan coattails into battle any day.

“‘ziraphale! You finished yet?” He checks himself in the mirror, smoothing a hand down the front of his black tank top. It’s not even noon and the temperature inside the shop is already stifling. “Don’t want to be late!”

“Alright, alright.” Aziraphale rushes down the stairs in a flurry, wearing a beige linen blazer and brandishing their tickets for the afternoon.

“You are not wearing a _jacket_ to an outdoor concert.”

Aziraphale frowns, looking down at his handiwork. “It’s _linen._ The most casual fabric for a blazer, I can assure you.”

“Yes and I’m sure you’ll blend in nicely with all the t-shirts and jean shorts we’re likely to see today.”

The concert had been Aziraphale’s idea, if you can believe it; though his wardrobe suggests otherwise.

Aziraphale smiles, giving Crowley a quick peck on the cheek. “You can ask me to be casual, my dear, but there is no need for me to be informal.”

“Casual and informal are the same thing. You’re deliberately missing the point.”

“That’s true.”

“You look like someone who has never been to a concert before, which, I suppose is accurate.”

“I beg your pardon; I’ll have you know that I’ve been to many fine orchestras in my day.”

Crowley wrinkles his nose. “Nope, not a concert. Doesn’t count.” He reaches for the car keys, giving the room a final once-over. “Still look nice, though.”

Aziraphale flashes a coy smile. “Thank you, I know.”

Crowley snorts, swiping the tickets from his hand. “Just because the band is called ‘Queen’ is no reason to dress like you’re going to Buckingham Palace.”

The door closes behind them, and the bookshop sits patiently in wait of their return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! 
> 
> At this point, I think it worth mentioning that I do not completely hate Hayden White, only the time I lost debating his opinions in grad school ;)
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read this fic, commented, and to everyone who will read this in the future. I hope it brought you a little joy, having this much fluff in your life. It was certainly fun to write, and I am so grateful for your feedback!
> 
> I am also creating a series called 'Epiphanies,' in which this fic is the first work. In the future, I plan to upload various one-shots from before or after the events of this fic. Feel free to follow the series (is that a thing?) for future updates. :)
> 
> Thanks again! <3


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